C7 


THE   RECLAIMERS 


BOOKS  BY 
MARGARET  HILL  McCARTER 

THE   RECLAIMERS 
VANGUARDS  OF   THE   PLAINS 


HARPER   &   BROTHERS,   NEW   YORK 
[ESTABLISHED  1817] 


THE 

RECLAIMERS 


BY 

MARGARET  HILL  McCARTER 

Author  of 

"VA.NQUARD3    OF   THE    PLAINS" 


HARPER  y  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK   AND   LONDON 


THE  RECLAIMERS 


Copyright,  1918,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  October,  1918 

1-s 


TO 

MAY  BELLEVILLE  BROWN 
CRITIC,   COUNSELLOR,   COMFORTER 


S136915 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 
JERRY 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  HEIR  APPARENT 3 

II.  UNCLE  CORNIE'S  THROW 22 

HE.         HITCHING  THE  WAGON  TO  A  STAR    ....  41 

IV.  BETWEEN  EDENS 60 

V.  NEW  EDEN'S  PROBLEM 84 

VI.  PARADISE  LOST 110 

PART  II 
JERRY  AND  JOE 

VII.  UNHITCHING  THE  WAGON  FROM  A  STAR    .     .  133 

VIII.  IF  A  MAN  WENT  RIGHT  WITH  HIMSELF   .     .  150 

IX.  IF  A  WOMAN  WENT  RIGHT  WITH  HERSELF   .  173 

X.  THE  SNARE  OF  THE  FOWLER 194 

XI.  AN  INTERLUDE  IN  "EDEN" 216 

XII.  THIS  SIDE  OF  THE  RUBICON 228 

PART  HI 
JERRY  AND  EUGENE— AND  JOE 

Xin.      How  A  GOOD  MOTHER  LIVES  ON     ....  253 

XIV.  JIM  SWAIM'S  WISH 271 

XV.  DRAWING  OUT  LEVIATHAN  WITH  A  HOOK    .     .  288 

XVI.  A  POSTLUDE  IN  "EDEN" 311 

XVII.  THE  FLESH-POTS  OF  THE  WINNOWOC    .     .     .  318 

XVIII.  THE  LORD  HATH  His  WAY  IN  THE  STORM    .  340 

XIX.  RECLAIMED                                                      .  355 


I 

JERRY 


THE    RECLAIMERS 


THE   HEIR   APPARENT 

ONLY  the  good  little  snakes  were  permitted 
to  enter  the  "Eden"  that  belonged  to  Aunt 
Jerry  and  Uncle  Cornie  Darby.  "Eden,"  it  should 
be  explained,  was  the  country  estate  of  Mrs. 
Jerusha  Darby — a  wealthy  Philadelphian — and 
her  husband,  Cornelius  Darby,  a  relative  by  mar 
riage,  so  to  speak,  whose  sole  business  on  earth 
was  to  guard  his  wife's  wealth  for  six  hours  of  the 
day  in  the  city,  and  to  practise  discus-throwing 
out  at  "Eden"  for  two  hours  every  evening. 

Of  course  these  two  were  never  familiarly 
"Aunt"  and  "Uncle"  to  this  country  neighbor 
hood,  nor  to  any  other  community.  Far,  oh,  far 
from  that!  They  were  Aunt  and  Uncle  only  to 
Jerry  Swaim,  the  orphaned  and  only  child  of  Mrs. 
Darby's  brother  Jim,  whose  charming  girlish  pres 
ence  made  the  whole  community,  wherever  she 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

might  chance  to  be.  They  were  cousin,  however, 
to  Eugene  Wellington,  a  young  artist  of  more 
than  ordinary  merit,  also  orphaned  and  alone, 
except  for  a  sort  of  cousinship  with  Uncle  Cor 
nelius. 

"Eden"  was  a  beautifully  located  and  hand 
somely  appointed  estate  of  two  hundred  acres, 
offering  large  facilities  to  any  photographer  seek 
ing  magazine  illustrations  of  country  life  in  Amer 
ica.  Indeed,  the  place  was,  as  Aunt  Jerry  Darby 
declared,  "summer  and  winter,  all  shot  up  by 
camera-toters  and  dabbed  over  with  canvas- 
stretchers'  paints,"  much  to  the  owner's  disgust, 
to  whom  all  camera-toters  and  artists,  except 
Cousin  Eugene  Wellington,  were  useless  idlers. 
The  rustic  little  railway  station,  hidden  by  maple- 
trees,  was  only  three  or  four  good  discus-throws 
from  the  house.  But  the  railroad  itself  very  prop 
erly  dropped  from  view  into  a  wooded  valley  on 
either  side  of  the  station.  There  was  nothing  of 
cindery  ugliness  to  mar  the  spot  where  the  dwell 
ers  in  "Eden"  could  take  the  early  morning  train 
for  the  city,  or  drop  off  in  the  cool  of  the  afternoon 
into  a  delightful  pastoral  retreat.  Beyond  the 
lawns  and  buildings,  gardens  and  orchards,  the 
land  billowed  away  into  meadow  and  pasture  and 
grain-field,  with  an  insert  of  leafy  grove  where 
song-birds  builded  an  Eden  all  their  own.  The 
entire  freehold  of  Aunt  Jerry  Darby  and  Uncle 
Cornie,  set  down  in  the  middle  of  a  Western 

4 


THE   HEIR    APPARENT 

ranch,  would  have  been  a  day's  journey  from  its 
borders.  And  yet  in  it  country  life  was  done  into 
poetry,  combining  city  luxuries  and  conveniences 
with  the  dehorned,  dethorned  comfort  and  free 
dom  of  idyllic  nature.  What  more  need  be  said 
for  this  "Eden"  into  which  only  the  good  little 
snakes  were  permitted  to  enter? 

In  the  late  afternoon  Aunt  Jerry  sat  in  the  rose- 
arbor  with  her  Japanese  work-basket  beside  her, 
and  a  pearl  tatting-shuttle  between  her  thumb 
and  fingers.  One  could  read  in  a  thoughtful  glance 
all  there  was  to  know  of  Mrs.  Darby.  Her  alert 
air  and  busy  hands  bespoke  the  habit  of  everlast 
ing  industry  fastened  down  upon  her,  no  doubt, 
in  a  far-off  childhood.  She  was  luxurious  in  her 
tastes.  The  satin  gown,  the  diamond  fastening 
the  little  cap  to  her  gray  hair,  the  elegant  lace  at 
her  throat  and  wrists,  the  flashing  jewels  on  her 
thin  fingers,  all  proclaimed  a  desire  for  display 
and  the  means  wherewith  to  pamper  it.  The  rest 
of  her  story  was  written  on  her  wrinkled  face, 
where  the  strong  traits  of  a  self-willed  youth  were 
deeply  graven.  Something  in  the  narrow,  restless 
eyes  suggested  the  discontented  lover  of  wealth. 
The  lines  of  the  mouth  hinted  at  selfishness  and 
prejudice.  The  square  chin  told  of  a  stubborn 
will,  and  the  stern  cast  of  features  indicated  no 
sense  of  humor  whereby  the  hardest  face  is  soft 
ened.  That  Jerusha  Darby  was  rich,  intolerant, 
determined,  unimaginative,  self-centered,  unfor- 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

giving,  and  unhappy  the  student  of  character 
might  gather  at  a  glance.  Where  these  traits  abide 
a  second  glance  is  unnecessary. 

Outside,  the  arbor  was  aglow  with  early  June 
roses;  within,  the  cushioned  willow  seats  invite 
to  restful  enjoyment.  But  Jerusha  Darby  was  not 
there  for  pleasure.  While  her  pearl  shuttle  darted 
in  and  out  among  her  fingers  like  a  tiny,  iridescent 
bird,  her  mind  and  tongue  were  busy  with  impor 
tant  matters. 

Opposite  to  her  was  her  husband,  Cornelius.  It 
was  only  important  matters  that  called  him  away 
from  his  business  in  the  city  at  so  early  an  hour 
in  the  afternoon.  And  it  was  only  on  business 
matters  that  he  and  his  wife  ever  really  conferred, 
either  in  the  rose-arbor  or  elsewhere.  The  appeal 
ing  beauty  of  the  place  indirectly  meant  nothing 
to  these  two  owners  of  all  this  beauty. 

The  most  to  be  said  of  Cornelius  Darby  was  that 
he  was  born  the  son  of  a  rich  man  and  he  died 
the  husband  of  a  rich  woman.  His  life,  like  his 
face,  was  colorless.  He  fitted  into  the  landscape 
and  his  presence  was  never  detected.  He  had  no 
opinions  of  his  own.  His  father  had  given  him  all 
that  he  needed  to  think  about  until  he  was  mar 
ried.  "Was  married"  is  well  said.  He  never 
courted  nor  married  anybody.  He  was  never 
courted,  but  he  was  married  by  Jerusha  Swaim. 
But  that  is  all  dried  stuff  now.  Let  it  be  said, 
however,  that  not  all  the  mummies  are  in  Egyptian 


THE    HEIR    APPARENT 

tombs  and  Smithsonian  Institutions.  Some  of 
them  sit  in  banking-houses  all  day  long,  and  go 
discus-throwing  in  lovely  "Edens"  on  soft  June 
evenings.  And  one  of  them  once,  just  once,  broke 
the  ancient  linen  wrappings  from  his  glazed  jaws 
and  spoke.  For  half  an  hour  his  voice  was  heard; 
and  then  the  bandages  slipped  back,  and  the 
mummy  was  all  mummy  again.  It  was  Jerry 
Swaim  who  wrought  that  miracle.  But  then  there 
is  little  in  the  earth,  or  the  waters  under  the  earth, 
that  a  pretty  girl  cannot  work  upon. 

"You  say  you  have  the  report  on  the  Swaim 
estate  that  the  Macpherson  Mortgage  Company 
of  New  Eden,  Kansas,  is  taking  care  of  for  us?" 
Mrs.  Darby  asked. 

"The  complete  report.  York  Macpherson  hasn't 
left  out  a  detail.  Shall  I  read  you  his  description?" 
her  husband  replied. 

"No,  no;  don't  tell  me  a  thing  about  it,  not  a, 
thing.  I  don't  want  to  know  any  more  about 
Kansas  than  I  know  already.  I  hate  the  very 
name  of  Kansas.  You  can  understand  why,  when 
you  remember  my  brother.  I've  known  York 
Macpherson  all  his  life,  him  and  his  sister  Laura, 
too.  And  I  never  could  understand  why  he 
went  so  far  West,  nor  why  he  dragged  that  lame 
sister  of  his  out  with  him  to  that  Sage  Brush 
country." 

"  That's  because  you  won't  let  me  tell  you  any 
thing  about  the  West.  But  as  a  matter  of  business 

7 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

you  ought  to  understand  the  conditions  connected 
with  this  estate." 

"I  tell  you  again  I  won't  listen  to  it,  not  one 
word.  He  is  employed  to  look  after  the  property, 
not  to  write  about  it.  None  of  my  family  ever 
expects  to  see  it.  When  we  get  ready  to  study  its 
value  we  will  give  due  notice.  Now  let  the  matter 
of  description,  location,  big  puffing  up  of  its  value 
— I  know  all  that  Kansas  talk — let  all  that  drop 
here."  Jerusha  Darby  unconsciously  stamped 
her  foot  on  the  cement  floor  of  the  arbor  and  struck 
her  thin  palm  flat  upon  the  broad  arm  of  her  chair. 

"Very  well,  Jerusha.  If  Jerry  ever  wants  to 
know  anything  about  its  extent,  agricultural  value, 
water-supply,  crop  returns,  etc.,  she  will  find  them 
on  file  in  my  office.  The  document  says  that  the 
land  in  the  Sage  Brush  Valley  in  Kansas  is  now, 
with  title  clear,  the  property  of  the  estate  of  the 
late  Jeremiah  Swaim  and  his  heirs  and  assigns 
forever;  that  York  Macpherson  will,  for  a  very 
small  consideration,  be  the  Kansas  representative 
of  the  Swaim  heirs.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say 
about  it." 

"Then  listen  to  me,"  Mrs.  Darby  commanded. 
And  her  listener — listened.  "Jerry  Swaim  is 
Brother  Jim  and  Sister  Lesa's  only  child.  She's 
been  brought  up  in  luxury;  never  wanted  a  thing 
she  didn't  get,  and  never  earned  a  penny  in  her 
life.  She  couldn't  do  it  to  save  her  life.  If  I  out 
live  you  she  will  be  my  heir  if  I  choose  to  make 


THE    HEIR   APPARENT 

my  will  in  her  favor.  She  can  be  taken  care  of 
without  that  Kansas  property  of  hers.  That's 
enough  about  the  matter.  We  will  drop  it  right 
here  for  other  things.  There's  your  cousin  Eugene 
Wellington  coming  home  again.  He's  a  real  artist 
and  hasn't  any  property  at  all.'* 

A  ghost  of  a  smile  flitted  across  Mr.  Darby's 
blank  face,  but  Mrs.  Darby  never  saw  ghosts. 

"Of  course  Jerry  and  Gene,  who  have  been 
playmates  in  the  same  game  all  their  lives,  will — 
will — "  Mrs.  Darby  hesitated. 

"Will  keep  on  playing  the  same  game,"  Cor 
nelius  suggested.  "  If  that's  all  about  this  business, 
I'll  go  and  look  after  the  lily-ponds  over  yonder, 
and  then  take  a  little  exercise  before  dinner.  I'm 
sorry  I  missed  Jerry  in  the  city.  She  doesn't 
know  I  am  out  here." 

"What  difference  if  you  did?  She  and  Eugene 
will  be  coming  out  on  the  train  pretty  soon," 
Mrs.  Darby  declared. 

"She  doesn't  know  he's  there,  maybe.  They 
may  miss  each  other,"  her  husband  replied. 

Then  he  left  the  arbor  and  effaced  himself,  as 
was  his  custom,  from  his  wife's  presence,  and 
busied  himself  with  matters  concerning  the  lily- 
ponds  on  the  far  side  of  the  grounds  where  pink 
lotuses  were  blooming. 

Meantime  Jerusha  Darby's  fingers  fairly  writhed 
about  her  tatting-work,  as  she  waited  impatiently 
for  the  sound  of  the  afternoon  train  from  the  city. 
2  9 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"It's  time  the  four-forty  was  whistling  round 
the  curve/*  she  murmured.  "My  girl  will  soon  be 
here,  unless  the  train  is  delayed  by  that  bridge 
down  yonder.  Plague  on  these  June  rains!" 

Mrs.  Darby  said  "my  girl"  exactly  as  she  would 
have  said  "my  bank  stock,"  or  "my  farm."  Hers 
was  the  tone  of  complete  possession. 

"She  could  have  come  out  in  the  auto  in  half 
the  time,  the  four-forty  creeps  so,  but  the  roads 
are  dreadfully  skiddy  after  these  abominable 
rains,"  Mrs.  Darby  continued. 

The  habit  of  speaking  her  thoughts  aloud  had 
grown  on  her,  as  it  often  does  on  those  advanced 
in  years  who  live  much  alone.  The  little  vista  of 
rain-washed  meadows  and  growing  grain  that  lay 
between  tall  lilac-trees  was  lost  to  her  eyes  in  the 
impatience  of  the  moment's  delay.  What  Jerusha 
Darby  wanted  for  Jerusha  Darby  was  vastly  more 
important  to  her  at  any  moment  than  the  abstract 
value  of  a  general  good  or  a  common  charm. 

As  she  leaned  forward,  listening  intently  for  the 
rumble  of  the  train  down  in  the  valley,  a  great 
automobile  swung  through  the  open  gateway  of 
"Eden"  and  rounded  the  curves  of  the  maple- 
guarded  avenue,  bearing  down  with  a  birdlike 
sweep  upon  the  rose-arbor. 

"Here  I  am,  Aunt  Jerry/*  the  driver's  girlish 
voice  called.  "Uncle  Cornie  is  coming  out  on  the 
train.  I  beat  him  to  it.  I  saw  the  old  engine 

huffing  and  puffing  at  the  hill  beyond  the  third 

10 


THE    HEIR   APPARENT 

crossing  of  the  Winnowoc.  It  is  bank-full  now 
from  the  rains.  I  stopped  on  that  high  fill  and 
watched  the  train  down  below  me  creeping  out 
on  the  trestle  above  the  creek.  When  it  got  across 
and  went  crawling  into  the  cut  on  this  side  I 
came  on,  too.  I  had  my  hands  full  then  making 
this  big  gun  of  a  car  climb  that  muddy,  slippery 
hill  that  the  railroad  cuts  through.  But  I'd  rather 
climb  than  creep  any  old  day." 

"Jerry  Swaim,"  Mrs.  Darby  cried,  staring  up 
at  her  niece  in  amazement,  "do  you  mean  to  say 
you  drove  out  alone  over  that  sideling,  slippery 
bluff  road?  But  you  wouldn't  be  Lesa  Swaim's 
daughter  if  you  weren't  taking  chances.  You  are 
your  mother's  own  child,  if  there  ever  was  one." 

"Well,  I  should  hope  I  am,  since  I've  got  to  be 
classified  somewhere.  I  came  because  I  wanted 
to,"  Jerry  declared,  with  the  finality  of  complete 
excuse  in  her  tone.  All  her  life  what  Jerry  Swaim 
had  wanted  was  abundant  reason  for  her  having. 
"It  was  dreadfully  hot  and  sticky  in  the  city, 
and  I  knew  it  would  be  the  bottom  deep  of  muggi- 
ness  on  that  crowded  Winnowoc  train.  The  last 
time  I  came  out  here  on  it  I  had  to  sit  beside  a 
dreadful  big  Dutchman  who  had  an  old  hen  and 
chickens  in  a  basket  under  his  feet.  He  had  had 
Limburger  cheese  for  his  dinner  and  had  used  his 
whiskers  for  a  napkin  to  catch  the  crumbs.  Ugh!" 
Jerry  gave  a  shiver  of  disgust  at  the  recollection. 

"An  old  lady  behind  us  had  *sfo/-atick  rheumatiz* 

11 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

and  wouldn't  let  the  windows  be  opened.  I'd 
rather  have  any  kind  of  'rheumatiz'  than  Lim- 
burger  for  the  same  length  of  time.  The  Winno- 
woc  special  ought  to  carry  a  parlor  coach  from  the 
city  and  set  it  off  at  'Eden '  like  it  used  to  do.  The 
agent  let  me  play  in  it  whenever  I  wanted  to  when 
I  was  a  youngster.  I'm  never  going  to  ride  on 
any  tram  again  unless  I  go  in  a  Pullman." 

The  girl  struck  her  small  gloved  fist,  like  a 
spoiled  child,  against  the  steering-wheel  of  her 
luxuriously  appointed  car,  but  her  winsome  smile 
was  all-redeeming  as  she  looked  down  at  her  aunt 
standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  rose-arbor. 

"Come  in  here,  Geraldine  Swaim.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you."  Mrs.  Darby's  affectionate  tones  carried 
also  a  note  of  command. 

"Means  business  when  she  'Geraldine  Swaims' 
me,"  Jerry  commented,  mentally,  as  she  gave  the 
car  to  the  "Eden"  man-of -all- work  and  followed 
her  aunt  to  a  seat  inside  the  blossom-covered  re 
treat,  where  the  pearl  shuttle  began  to  grow  tatting 
again  beneath  the  thin,  busy  fingers. 

It  always  pleased  Jerusha  Darby  to  be  told 
that  there  was  a  resemblance  between  these  two. 
But,  although  the  older  woman's  countenance  was 
an  open  book  holding  the  story  of  inherited  ideas, 
limited  and  intensified,  and  the  young  face  un 
mistakably  perpetuated  the  family  likeness,  yet 
Jerry  Swaim  was  a  type  of  her  own,  not  easy  to 
forejudge.  In  the  shadows  of  the  rose-arbor  her 

12 


THE    HEIR    APPARENT 

hair  rippled  back  from  her  forehead  in  dull-gold 
waves.  One  could  picture  what  the  sunshine 
would  do  for  it.  Her  big,  dark-blue  eyes  were 
sometimes  dreamy  under  their  long  lashes,  and 
sometimes  full  of  sparkling  light.  Her  whole 
atmosphere  was  that  of  easeful,  dependent,  city 
life;  yet  there  was  something  contrastingly  defi 
nite  in  her  low  voice,  her  firm  mouth  and  square- 
cut  chin.  And  beyond  appearances  and  manner, 
there  was  something  which  nobody  ever  quite 
defined,  that  made  it  her  way  to  walk  straight  into 
the  hearts  of  those  who  knew  her. 

"Where  were  you  in  the  city  to-day?"  Mrs. 
Darby  asked,  abruptly,  looking  keenly  at  the  fair- 
faced  girl  much  as  she  would  have  looked  at  any 
other  of  her  goodly  possessions. 

"Let  me  see,"  Jerry  Swaim  began,  meditatively. 
"I  was  shopping  quite  a  while.  The  stores  are 
gorgeous  this  June." 

"Yes,  and  what  else?"  queried  the  older  woman. 

"Oh,  some  more  shopping.  Then  I  lunched  at 
La  Senorita,  that  beautiful  new  tea-house.  Every 
room  represents  some  nationality  in  its  decoration. 
I  was  in  the  Delft  room — Holland  Dutch — whis 
kers  and  Limburger" — there  was  a  gleam  of  fun  in 
the  dark-blue  eyes — "but  it  is  restful  and  charm 
ing.  And  the  service  is  perfect.  Then  I  strolled 
off  to  the  Art  Gallery  and  lost  myself  in  the  latest 
exhibit.  Cousin  Gene  would  like  that,  I'm  sure. 
It  was  so  cool  and  quiet  there  that  I  stayed  a  long 

13 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

time.  The  exhibit  is  mostly  of  landscapes,  all  of 
them  as  beautiful  as  'Eden'  except  one." 

There  was  just  a  shade  of  something  different 
in  the  girl's  tone  when  she  spoke  her  cousin's 
name. 

"And  that  one?"  Mrs.  Darby  inquired.  She  did 
not  object  to  shopping  and  more  shopping,  but 
art  was  getting  outside  of  her  dominion. 

"It  was  a  desert-like  scene;  just  yellow-gray 
plains,  with  no  trees  at  all.  And  in  the  farther 
distance  the  richest  purples  and  reds  of  a  sunset 
sky  into  which  the  land  sort  of  diffused.  No  land 
scape  on  this  earth  was  ever  so  yellow-gray,  or 
any  sunset  ever  so  like  the  Book  of  Revelation, 
nor  any  horizon-line  so  wide  and  far  away.  It  was 
the  hyperbole  of  a  freakish  imagination.  And 
yet,  Aunt  Jerry,  there  was  a  romantic  lure  in  the 
thing,  somehow." 

Jerry  Swaim's  face  was  grave  as  she  gazed  with 
wide,  unseeing  eyes  at  the  vista  of  fresh  June 
meadows  from  which  the  odor  of  red  clover,  puls 
ing  in  on  the  cool  west  breeze  of  the  late  afternoon, 
mingled  with  the  odor  of  white  honeysuckle  that 
twined  among  the  climbing  rose-vines  above  her. 

"Humph!  What  else?"  Aunt  Jerry  sniffed  a 
disapproval  of  unpleasant  landscapes  in  general 
and  alluring  romances  in  particular.  Love  of  ro 
mance  was  not  in  her  mental  make-up,  any  more 
than  love  of  art. 

"I  went  over  to  Uncle  Cornie's  bank  to  tell  him 

14 


THE    HEIR    APPARENT 

to  take  care  of  my  shopping-bills.  He  wasn't  in 
just  then  and  I  didn't  wait  for  him.  By  the 
way" — Jerry  Swaim  was  not  dreamy  now — 
"since  all  the  legal  litigations  and  things  are  over, 
oughtn't  I  begin  to  manage  my  own  affairs  and 
live  on  my  own  income?" 

Sitting  there  in  the  shelter  of  blossoming  vines, 
the  girl  seemed  far  too  dainty  a  creature,  too  lack 
ing  in  experience,  initiative,  or  ability,  to  manage 
anything  more  trying  than  a  big  allowance  of  pin- 
money.  And  yet,  something  in  her  small,  firm 
hands,  something  in  the  lines  of  her  well-formed 
chin,  put  the  doubt  into  any  forecast  of  what 
Geraldine  Swaim  might  do  when  she  chose  to  act. 

Aunt  Jerry  wrapped  the  lacy  tatting  stuff  she 
had  been  making  around  the  pearl  shuttle  and, 
putting  both  away  in  the  Japanese  work-basket, 
carefully  snapped  down  the  lid. 

"When  Jerusha  Darby  quits  work  to  talk  it's 
time  for  me  to  put  on  my  skid-chains,"  Jerry  said 
to  herself  as  she  watched  the  procedure. 

"Jerry,  do  you  know  why  I  called  you  your 
mother's  own  child  just  now?"  Mrs.  Darby  asked, 
gravely. 

"From  habit,  maybe,  you  have  said  it  so  often." 
Jerry's  smile  took  away  any  suggestion  of  pertness. 
"I  know  I  am  like  her  in  some  ways." 

"Yes,  but  not  altogether,"  the  older  woman  con 
tinued.  "Lesa  Swaim  was  a  strange  combination. 
She  was  made  to  spend  money,  with  no  idea  of 

15 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

how  to  get  money.  And  she  brought  you  up  the 
same  way.  And  now  you  are  grown,  boarding- 
school  finished,  and  of  age,  you  can't  alter  your 
bringing  up  any  more  than  you  can  change  your 
big  eyes  that  are  just  like  Lesa's,  nor  your  chin 
that  you  inherited  from  Brother  Jim.  I  might 
as  well  try  to  give  you  little  black  eyes  and  a  re 
ceding  chin  as  to  try  to  reshape  your  ways  now. 
You  are  as  the  Lord  made  you,  and  Providence 
molded  you,  and  your  mother  spoiled  you." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  be  anything  different. 
I'm  happy  as  I  am." 

"You  won't  need  to  be,  unless  you  choose.  But 
being  twenty-one  doesn't  make  you  too  old  to 
listen  to  me — and  your  uncle  Cornie." 

In  all  her  life  Jerry  had  never  before  heard  her 
uncle's  name  brought  in  as  co-partner  of  Jerusha 
Darby's  in  any  opinion,  authority,  or  advice.  It 
was  an  unfortunate  slip  of  the  tongue  for  Uncle 
Cornie's  wife,  one  of  those  simple  phrases  that, 
dropped  at  the  right  spot,  take  root  and  grow  and 
bear  big  fruit,  whether  of  sweet  or  bitter  taste. 

"Your  mother  was  a  dreamer,  a  lover  of  ro 
mance,  and  all  sorts  of  adventures,  although  she 
never  had  a  chance  to  get  into  any  of  them. 
That's  why  you  went  skidding  on  that  sideling 
bluff  road  to-day;  that  and  the  fact  that  she 
brought  you  up  to  have  your  own  way  about 
everything.  But,  as  I  say,  we  can't  change  that 
now,  and  there's  no  need  to  if  we  could.  Lesa 

16 


THE    HEIR    APPARENT 

was  a  pretty  woman,  but  you  look  like  the  Swaims, 
except  right  across  here." 

Aunt  Jerry  drew  her  bony  finger  across  the 
girl's  brows,  unwilling  to  concede  any  of  the 
family  likeness  that  could  possibly  be  retained. 
She  could  not  see  the  gleam  of  mischief  lurking 
under  the  downcast  eyelashes  of  Lesa  Swaim's 
own  child. 

"Your  father  was  a  good  business  man,  level 
headed,  shrewd,  and  honest" — Mrs.  Darby  spoke 
rapidly  now — "but  things  happened  in  the  last 
years  of  his  life.  Your  mother  took  pneumonia 
and  died,  and  you  went  away  to  boarding-school. 
Jim's  business  was  considerably  involved.  I 
needn't  bother  to  tell  you  about  that.  It  doesn't 
matter  now,  anyhow.  And  then  one  night  he  didn't 
come  home,  and  the  next  morning  your  uncle 
found  him  sitting  in  his  office,  just  as  he  had  left 
him  the  evening  before.  He  had  been  dead  several 
hours.  Heart  failure  was  what  the  doctor  said, 
but  I  reckon  everybody  goes  of  heart  failure  sooner 
or  later." 

A  bright,  hard  glow  came  into  Jerry  Swaim's 
eyes  and  the  red  lips  were  grimly  pressed  together. 
In  the  two  years  since  the  loss  of  her  parents  the 
girl  had  never  tried  to  pray.  As  time  went  on  the 
light  spirit  of  youth  had  come  back,  but  something 
went  out  of  her  life  on  the  day  of  her  father's 
death,  leaving  a  loss  against  which  she  stub 
bornly  rebelled. 

17 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"To  be  plain,  Jerry,"  Mrs.  Darby  hurried  on, 
"you  have  your  inheritance  all  cleared  up  at  last, 
after  two  whole  years  of  legal  trouble." 

"Oh,  it  hasn't  really  bothered  me,"  Jerry  de 
clared,  with  seeming  flippancy.  "Just  signing  my 
name  where  somebody  pointed  to  a  blank  line, 
and  holding  up  my  right  hand  to  be  sworn — that's 
all.  I've  written  my  full  name  and  promised  that 
the  writing  was  mine,  Vwelp  me  Gawd,'  as  the 
court-house  man  used  to  say,  till  I  could  do  either 
one  under  the  influence  of  ether.  Nothing  really 
bothersome  about  it,  but  I'm  glad  it's  over.  Busi 
ness  is  so  tiresome." 

"It's  not  so  large  a  fortune,  by  a  good  deal,  as 
it  would  have  been  if  your  father  had  listened  to 
me."  Mrs.  Darby  spoke  vaguely.  "But  you  will 
be  amply  provided  for,  anyhow,  unless  you  your 
self  choose  to  trifle  with  your  best  interest.  You 
and  I  are  the  only  Swaims  living  now.  Some 
day,  if  I  choose,  I  can  will  all  my  property  to 

you." 

The  square-cut  chin  and  the  deep  lines  around 
the  stern  mouth  told  plainly  that  obedience  to 
this  woman's  wishes  alone  could  make  a  bene 
ficiary  to  that  will. 

"You  may  be  a  dreamer,  and  love  to  go  ro 
mancing  around  into  new  scrapes  like  your  mother 
would  have  done  if  she  could.  But  she  was  as 
soft-hearted  as  could  be,  with  all  that.  That's 
why  she  never  denied  you  anything  you  wanted. 

18 


THE    HEIR    APPARENT 

She  couldn't  do  a  thing  with  money,  though,  as  I 
said,  except  spend  it.  You  are  a  good  deal  like 
your  father,  too,  Jerry,  and  you'll  value  property 
some  day  as  the  only  thing  on  earth  that  can  make 
life  anything  but  a  hard  grind.  If  you  don't  want 
to  be  like  that  bunch  of  everlasting  grubs  that 
ride  on  the  Winnowoc  train  every  afternoon,  or 
the  poor  country  folks  around  here  that  never  ride 
in  anything  but  a  rickety  old  farm-wagon,  you'll 
appreciate  what  I — and  Uncle  Cornie — can  do 
for  you." 

Uncle  Cornie  again,  and  he  never  had  shared 
in  any  equal  consideration  before.  It  was  a 
mistake. 

"There's  the  four-forty  whistling  for  the  curve 
at  last.  It's  time  it  was  coming.  I  must  go  in  and 
see  that  dinner  is  just  right.  You  run  down  and 
meet  it.  Cousin  Eugene  is  coming  out  on  it. 
Your  uncle  Cornie  is  here  on  the  place  somewhere. 
He  came  out  after  lunch  on  some  business  we  had 
to  fix  up.  No  wonder  you  missed  him.  But, 
Jerry" — the  stern-faced  woman  put  a  hand  on 
the  girl's  shoulder  with  more  of  command  than 
caress  in  the  gesture — "Eugene  is  a  real  artist 
with  genius,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Jerry  replied,  a  sudden  change 
coming  into  her  tone.  "What  of  that?" 

"You've  always  known  him.  You  like  him  very 
much?"  Jerusha  Darby  was  as  awkward  in  senti 
ment  as  she  was  shrewd  in  a  bargain. 

19 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

The  bloom  on  the  girFs  cheek  deepened  as  she 
looked  away  toward  the  brilliantly  green  meadows 
across  which  the  low  sun  was  sending  rays  of  golden 
light. 

"Oh,  I  like  him  as  much  as  he  likes  me,  no  doubt. 
I'll  go  down  to  the  station  and  look  him  over,  if 
you  say  so." 

Beneath  the  words  lay  something  deeper  than 
speech — something  new  even  to  the  girl  herself. 

As  Jerry  left  the  arbor  Mrs.  Darby  said,  with 
something  half  playful,  half  final,  in  her  tone: 
"You  won't  forget  what  I've  said  about  property, 
you  little  spendthrift.  You  will  be  sensible,  like 
my  sensible  brother's  child,  even  if  you  are  as 
idealizing  as  your  sentimental  mother." 

"I'll  not  forget.  I  couldn't  and  be  Jerry  Darby's 
niece,"  the  last  added  after  the  girl  was  safely  out 
of  her  aunt's  hearing.  "My  father  and  mother 
both  had  lots  of  good  traits,  it  seems,  and  a  few 
poor  ones.  I  seem  to  be  really  heir  to  all  the  faulty 
bents  of  theirs,  and  to  have  lost  out  on  all  the 
good  ones.  But  I  can't  help  that  now.  Not  till 
after  the  train  gets  in,  anyhow." 

Her  aunt  watched  her  till  the  shrubbery  hid 
her  at  a  turn  in  the  walk.  Young,  full  of  life, 
dainty  as  the  June  blossoms  that  showered  her 
pathway  with  petals,  a  spoiled,  luxury-loving  child, 
with  an  adventurous  spirit  and  a  blunted  and  un 
developed  notion  of  human  service  and  divine 
heritage,  but  with  a  latent  capacity  and  an  un- 

20 


THE    HEIR    APPARENT 

trained  power  for  doing  things,  that  was  Jerry 
Swaim — whom  the  winds  of  heaven  must  not  visit 
too  roughly  without  being  accountable  to  Mrs. 
Jerusha  Darby,  owner  and  manager  of  the  uni 
verse  for  her  niece. 


n 

UNCLE  COHNIE'S  THROW 

t 

TERRY  was  waiting  at  the  cool  end  of  the 
*J  rustic  station  when  the  train  came  in.  How 
hot  and  stuffy  it  seemed  to  her  as  it  puffed  out  of 
the  valley,  and  how  tired  and  cross  all  the  bunch 
of  grubs  who  stared  out  of  the  window  at  her.  It 
made  them  ten  times  more  tired  and  cross  and 
hot  to  see  that  girl  looking  so  cool  and  rested  and 
exquisitely  gowned  and  crowned  and  shod.  The 
blue  linen  with  white  embroidered  cuffs,  the  rip 
pling,  glinting  masses  of  hair,  the  small  shoes, 
immaculately  white  against  the  green  sod — little 
wonder  that,  while  the  heir  apparent  to  the  Darby 
wealth  felt  comfortably  indifferent  toward  this 
uninteresting  line  of  nobodies  in  particular,  the 
bunch  of  grubs  should  feel  only  envy  and  resent 
ment  of  their  own  sweaty,  muscle-worn  lot  in 
life. 

Jerry  and  Eugene  Wellington  were  far  up  the 
shrubbery  walk  by  the  time  the  Winnowoc  train 
was  on  its  way  again,  unconscious  that  the 
passengers  were  looking  after  them,  or  that  the 

22 


UNCLE    CORNIE'S    THROW 

talk,  as  the  train  slowly  got  under  way,  was  all  of 
"that  rich  old  codger  of  a  Darby  and  his  selfish 
old  wife";  of  "that  young  dude  artist,  old  Well 
ington's  kid,  too  lazy  to  work";  of  "that  pretty, 
frivolous  girl  who  didn't  know  how  to  comb  her 
own  hair,  Jim  Swaim's  girl — poor  Jim!"  "Old 
Corn  Darby  was  looking  yellow  and  thin,  too. 
He  would  dry  up  and  blow  away  some  day 
if  his  money  wasn't  weighting  him  down  so  he 
couldn't." 

At  the  bend  in  the  walk,  the  two  young  people 
saw  Uncle  Cornie  crossing  the  lawn. 

"Going  to  get  his  discus.  He'll  have  no  ap 
petite  for  dinner  unless  he  gets  in  a  few  dozen 
slings,"  the  young  man  declared.  "Let's  turn 
in  here  at  the  sign  of  the  roses,  Jerry.  I'm  too 
lazy  to  take  another  step." 

"You  should  have  come  out  with  me  in  the 
car,"  Jerry  replied  as  they  sat  down  in  the  cool 
arbor  made  for  youth  and  June-time.  "I  didn't 
know  you  were  in  the  city." 

"Well,  little  cousin  girl,  I'll  confess  I  didn't 
dare,"  the  young  man  declared,  boldly.  "I've 
been  studying  awfully  hard  this  year,  and,  now 
I'm  needed  to  paint  The  Great  American  Canvas, 
I  can't  end  my  useful  career  under  a  big  touring- 
car  at  the  bottom  of  an  embankment  out  on  the 
Winnowoc  bluff  road.  So  when  I  saw  you  coming 
into  Uncle  Cornie's  office  in  the  bank  I  slipped 
away." 

23 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"And  as  to  my  own  risk?"  Jerry  asked. 

"Oh,  Jerry  Swaim,  you  would  never  have  an 
accident  in  a  hundred  years.  There's  nobody  like 
you,  little  cousin  mine,  nobody  at  all." 

Eugene  Wellington  put  one  well-formed  hand 
lightly  on  the  small  white  hand  lying  on  the  wicker 
chair-arm,  and,  leaning  forward,  he  looked  down 
into  the  face  of  the  girl  beside  him.  A  handsome, 
well-set  up,  artistic  young  fellow  he  was,  fitted 
to  adorn  life's  ornamental  places.  And  if  a  faint 
line  of  possible  indecision  of  character  might  have 
suggested  itself  to  the  keen-eyed  reader  of  faces, 
other  traits  outweighed  its  possibility.  For  his 
was  a  fine  face,  with  a  sort  of  gracious  gentleness 
in  it  that  grows  with  the  artist's  growth.  A  hint 
of  deeper  spirituality,  too,  that  marks  nobility  of 
character,  added  to  a  winning  personality,  put 
Eugene  Wellington  above  the  common  class.  He 
fitted  the  rose-arbor,  in  "Eden"  and  the  comrade 
ship  of  good  breeding.  When  a  man  finds  his 
element,  all  the  rest  of  the  world  moves  more 
smoothly  therefor. 

"Nobody  like  me,"  Jerry  repeated.  "It's  a 
good  thing  I'm  the  only  one  of  the  kind.  You'd 
say  so  if  you  knew  what  Aunt  Jerry  thinks  of  me. 
She  has  been  analyzing  me  and  filing  me  away 
in  sections  this  afternoon." 

"What's  on  her  mind  now?"  Eugene  Wellington 
asked,  as  he  leaned  easefully  back  in  his  chair. 

"She  says  I  am  heir — "    Jerry  always  wondered 

24 


UNCLE    CORNIE'S    THROW 

what  made  her  pause  there.  Years  afterward, 
when  this  June  evening  came  back  in  memory, 
she  could  not  account  for  it. 

"Heir  to  what?"  the  young  artist  inquired,  a 
faint,  shadowy  something  sweeping  his  coun 
tenance  fleetly. 

"  To  all  the  sphere, 

To  the  seven  stars  and  the  solar  year; 

also  to  my  father's  entire  estate  that's  left  after 
some  two  years  of  litigation.  I  hate  litigations." 

"So  do  I,  Jerry.  Let's  forget  them.  Isn't 
'Eden'  beautiful?  I'm  so  glad  to  be  back  here 
again."  Eugene  Wellington  looked  out  at  the 
idyllic  loveliness  of  the  place  which  the  rose-arbor 
was  built  especially  to  command.  "Nobody 
could  sin  here,  for  there  are  no  serpents  busy- 
bodying  around  in  such  a  dream  of  a  landscape  as 
this.  I'm  glad  I'm  an  artist,  if  I  never  become 
famous.  There's  such  a  joy  in  being  able  to  see, 
even  if  your  brush  fails  miserably  in  trying  to 
make  others  see." 

Again  the  man's  shapely  hand  fell  gently  on  the 
girl's  hand,  and  this  time  it  stayed  there. 

"You  love  it  all  as  much  as  I  do,  don't  you, 
Jerry?"  The  voice  was  deep  with  emotion.  "And 
you  feel  as  I  do,  how  this  lifts  one  nearer  to  God. 
Or  is  it  because  you  are  here  with  me  that  'Eden* 
is  so  fair  to-night?  May  I  tell  you  something, 

Jerry?    Something  I've  waited  for  the  summer  and 

25 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

'Eden'  to  give  me  the  hour  and  the  place  to  say? 
We've  always  known  each  other.  We  thought  we 
did  before,  but  a  new  knowing  came  to  me  the 
day  your  father  left  us.  Look  up,  little  cousin. 
I  want  to  say  something  to  you." 

June-time,  and  youth,  and  roses,  and  soft,  sweet 
air,  and  nobody  there  but  blossoms,  and  whisper 
ing  breezes,  and  these  two.  And  they  had  known 
each  other  always.  Oh,  always!  But  now — 
something  was  different  now,  something  that  was 
grander,  more  beautiful  in  this  place,  in  this  day, 
in  each  other,  than  had  ever  been  before — the  old, 
old  miracle  of  a  man  and  a  maid. 

Suddenly  something  whizzed  through  the  air 
and  a  snakelike  streak  of  shadow  cut  the  light 
of  the  doorway.  Out  in  the  open,  Uncle  Cornie 
came  slowly  stepping  off  the  space  to  where  his 
discus  lay  beside  the  rose-arbor — one  of  the  good 
little  snakes.  Every  Eden  has  them,  and  some  are 
much  better  than  others. 

The  discus-ground  was  out  on  a  lovely  stretch 
of  shorn  clover  sod.  Why  the  discus  should  wan 
der  from  the  thrower's  hand  through  the  air 
toward  the  rose-arbor  no  wind  of  heaven  could 
tell.  Nor  could  it  tell  why  Uncle  Cornie  should 
choose  to  follow  it  and  stand  in  the  doorway  of 
the  arbor  until  the  "Eden"  dinner-hour  called 
all  three  of  the  dwellers,  Adam  and  Eve  and  this 
good  little  snake,  to  the  cool  dining-room  and 
what  goes  with  it. 

26 


UNCLE    CORNIE'S    THROW 

Twilight  and  moonlight  were  melting  into  one, 
and  all  the  sweet  odors  of  dew-kissed  blossoms, 
the  good-night  twitter  of  homing  birds,  the  mists 
rising  above  the  Winnowoc  Valley,  the  shadows  of 
shrubbery  on  the  lawn,  and  the  darkling  outline 
of  the  tall  maples  made  "Eden"  as  beautiful  now 
as  in  the  full  sunlight. 

Jerry  Swaim  sat  in  the  doorway  of  the  rose- 
arbor,  watching  Uncle  Cornie  throwing  his  discus 
again  along  the  smooth  white  clover  sod.  Aunt 
Jerry  had  trailed  off  with  Eugene  to  the  far  side 
of  the  spacious  grounds  to  see  the  lily-ponds  where 
the  pink  lotuses  were  blooming. 

"Young  folks  mustn't  be  together  too  much. 
They'll  get  tired  of  each  other  too  quickly.  I  used 
to  get  bored  to  death  having  Cornelius  forever 
around."  Aunt  Jerry  philosophized,  considering 
herself  as  wise  in  the  affairs  of  the  heart  as  she 
was  shrewd  in  affairs  of  the  pocketbook.  She 
would  make  Jerry  and  Gene  want  to  be  together 
before  they  had  the  chance  again. 

So  Jerry  Swaim  sat  alone,  watching  the  lights 
and  shadows  on  the  lawn,  only  half  conscious  of 
Uncle  Cornie's  presence  out  there,  until  he  sud 
denly  followed  his  discus  as  it  rolled  toward  the 
arbor  and  lay  flat  at  her  feet.  Instead  of  picking 
it  up,  he  dropped  down  on  the  stone  step  beside 
his  niece  and  sat  without  speaking  until  Jerry 
forgot  his  presence  entirely.  It  was  his  custom  to 
sit  without  speaking,  and  to  be  forgotten. 

27 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

Jerry's  mind  was  full  of  many  things.  Life 
had  opened  a  new  door  to  her  that  afternoon, 
and  something  strange  and  sweet  had  suddenly 
come  through  it.  Life  had  always  opened  pleasant 
doors  to  her,  save  that  one  through  which  her 
father  and  mother  had  slipped  away — a  door  that 
closed  and  shut  her  from  them  and  God,  whose 
Providence  had  robbed  her  so  cruelly  of  what  was 
her  own.  But  no  door  ever  showed  her  as  fair  a 
vista  as  the  one  now  opening  before  her  dreamy 
gaze. 

She  glanced  unseeingly  at  the  old  man  sitting 
beside  her.  Then  across  her  memory  Aunt  Jerry's 
words  came  drifting,  "Being  twenty-one  doesn't 
make  you  too  old  to  listen  to  me — and  your  uncle 
Cornie,"  and,  "You'll  appreciate  what  I — and 
Uncle  Cornie — can  do  for  you." 

Uncle  Cornie  was  looking  at  her  with  a  face  as 
expressionless  as  if  he  were  about  to  say,  "The 
bank  doesn't  make  loans  on  any  such  security," 
yet  something  in  his  eyes  drew  her  comfortably 
to  him  and  she  mechanically  put  her  shapely 
little  hand  on  his  thin  yellow  one. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  before  anything  happens, 
Jerry,*'  he  began,  and  then  paused,  in  a  confused 
uncertainty  that  threatened  to  end  his  wanting 
here. 

And  Jerry,  being  a  woman,  divined  in  an  in 
stant  that  it  was  to  talk  to  her  before  anything 
happened  that  he  had  thrown  that  discus  out  of 

28 


UNCLE    CORNIE'S    THROW 

its  way  when  she  and  Gene  had  thought  them 
selves  alone  in  the  arbor  before  dinner.  It  was  to 
talk  to  her  that  the  thing  had  been  rolled  pur 
posely  to  her  feet  now.  Queer  Uncle  Cornie! 

"I'm  not  too  old  to  listen  to  you.  I  appreciate 
what  you  can  do  for  me."  Jerry  was  quoting  her 
aunt's  admonitions  exactly,  which  showed  how 
deeply  they  had  unconsciously  impressed  them 
selves  on  her  mind.  Her  words  broke  the  linen 
bands  about  Uncle  Cornie's  glazed  jaws,  and  he 
spoke. 

"Your  estate  is  all  settled  now.  What's  left  to 
you  after  that  rascally  John — I  mean  after  two 
years  of  pulling  and  hauling  through  the  courts, 
is  a  'claim/  as  they  call  it,  in  the  Sage  Brush  Val 
ley  in  Kansas.  It  has  never  been  managed  well, 
somehow.  There's  not  been  a  cent  of  income  from 
it  since  Jim  Swaim  got  hold  of  it,  but  that's  no 
fault  of  the  man  who  is  looking  after  it — a  York 
Macpherson.  He's  a  gentleman  you  can  trust 
anywhere.  That's  all  there  is  of  your  own  from 
your  father's  estate." 

Jerry  Swaim's  dark-blue  eyes  opened  wide  and 
her  face  was  lily  white  under  the  shadow  of  dull- 
gold  hair  above  it. 

"You  are  dependent  on  your  aunt  for  every 
thing.  Well,  she's  glad  of  that.  So  am  I,  in  a  way. 
Only,  if  you  go  against  her  will  you  won't  be 
her  heir  any  more.  You  mightn't  be,  anyhow, 
if  she — went  first.  The  Darby  estate  isn't  really 

29 


Jerusha  Swaim's;  it's  mine.  But  she  thinks  it's 
hers  and  it's  all  right  that  way,  because,  in  the 
end,  I  do  control  it."  Uncle  Cornie  paused. 

Jerry  sat  motionless,  and,  although  it  was  June- 
time,  the  little  white  hand  on  the  speaker's  thin 
yellow  one  was  very  cold. 

"If  you  are  satisfied,  I'm  glad,  but  I  won't  let 
Jim  Swaim's  child  think  she's  got  a  fortune  of 
her  own  when  she  hasn't  got  a  cent  and  must 
depend  on  the  good-will  of  her  relatives  for  every 
thing  she  wants.  Jim  would  haunt  me  to  my 
grave  if  I  did." 

Jerry  stared  at  her  uncle's  face  in  the  darkening 
twilight.  In  all  her  life  she  had  never  known  him 
to  seem  to  have  any  mind  before  except  what 
grooved  in  with  Aunt  Jerry's  commanding  mind. 
Yet,  surprised  as  she  was,  she  involuntarily  drew 
nearer  to  him  as  to  one  whom  she  could  trust. 

"We  agreed  long  ago,  Jim  and  I  did,  when  Jim 
was  a  rich  man,  that  some  day  you  must  be 
shown  that  you  were  his  child  as  well  as  Lesa's — 
I  mean  that  you  mustn't  always  be  a  dependent 
spender.  You  must  get  some  Swaim  notions  of 
living,  too.  Not  that  either  of  us  ever  criticized 
your  mother's  sweet  spirit  and  her  ideal-building 
and  love  of  adventure.  Romance  belongs  to  some 
lives  and  keeps  them  young  and  sweet  if  they  live 
to  be  a  million.  I'm  not  down  on  it  like  your 
Aunt  Jerry  is." 

Romance  had  steered  wide  away  from  Cornelius 
so 


UNCLE    CORNIE'S   THROW 

Darby's  colorless  days.  And  possibly  only  this 
once  in  the  sweet  stillness  of  the  June  twilight  at 
"Eden"  did  that  hungering  note  ever  sound  in 
his  voice,  and  then  only  for  a  brief  space. 

"Jim  would  have  told  you  all  this  himself  if 
he  had  got  his  affairs  untangled  in  time.  And 
he'd  have  done  that,  for  he  had  a  big  brain  and 
a  big  heart,  but  God  went  and  took  him.  He 
did.  Don't  rebel  always,  Jerry.  God  was  good 
to  him — you'll  see  it  some  day  and  quit  your  ugly 
doubting." 

Who  ever  called  anything  ugly  about  Jerry 
Swaim  before?  That  a  creature  like  Cornelius 
Darby  should  do  it  now  was  one  of  the  strange, 
unbelievable  things  of  this  world. 

"I  just  wanted  to  say  again,"  Uncle  Cornie 
continued,  "if  I  go  first  you'd  be  Jerusha's  heir. 
We  agreed  to  that  long  ago.  That  is,  if  you  don't 
cross  her  wishes  and  start  her  to  make  a  will 
against  you,  as  she'd  do  if  you  didn't  obey  her  to 
the  last  letter  in  the  alphabet.  If  I  go  after  she 
does,  the  property  all  goes  by  law  to  distant  rela 
tives  of  mine.  That  was  fixed  before  I  ever  got 
hold  of  it — heirs  of  some  spendthrifts  who  would 
have  wasted  it  long  ago  if  they'd  lived  and  had 
it  themselves." 

The  sound  of  voices  and  Eugene  Wellington's 
light  laughter  came  faintly  from  the  lily-pond. 

"Eugene  is  a  good  fellow,"  Uncle  Cornie  said, 

meditatively.     "He's  got  real  talent  and  he'll 

si 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

make  a  name  for  himself  some  day  that  will  be 
stronger,  and  do  more  good,  and  last  longer  than 
the  man's  name  that's  just  rated  gilt-edged  se 
curity  on  a  note,  and  nowhere  else.  Gene  will 
make  a  decent  living,  too,  independent  of  any 
aunts  and  uncles.  But  he's  no  stronger-willed,  nor 
smarter,  nor  better  than  you  are,  Jerry,  even  if 
he  is  a  bit  more  religious-minded,  as  you  might 
say.  You  try  awfully  hard  to  think  you  don't 
believe  in  anything  because  just  once  in  your  life 
Providence  didn't  work  your  way.  You  can't 
fool  with  your  own  opinions  against  God  Almighty 
and  not  lose  in  the  deal.  You'll  have  to  learn 
that  some  time.  All  of  us  do,  sooner  or  later." 

"But  to  take  my  father — all  I  had — after  I 
had  given  up  mother,  I  can't  see  any  justice  nor 
any  mercy  in  it,"  Jerry  broke  out. 

Uncle  Cornie  was  no  comforter  with  words.  He 
had  had  no  chance  to  practise  giving  sympathy 
either  before  or  after  marriage.  Mummies  are 
limited,  whether  they  be  in  sealed  sarcophagi  or 
sit  behind  roller-top  desks  and  cut  coupons.  Some 
thing  in  his  quiet  presence,  however,  soothed  the 
girl's  rebellious  spirit  more  than  words  could  have 
done.  Cornelius  Darby  did  not  know  that  he 
could  come  nearer  to  the  true  measurement  of 
Jerry's  mind  than  any  one  else  had  ever  done. 
People  had  pitied  her  when  her  mother  passed 
away  and  her  father  died  a  bankrupt — which  last 
fact  she  must  not  be  told — but  nobody  understood 

32 


her  except  Uncle  Cornie,  and  he  had  never  said  a 
word  until  now.  He  seemed  to  know  now  just 
how  her  mind  was  running.  The  wisdom  of  the 
serpent — even  the  good  little  snakes,  of  this 
"Eden" — is  not  to  be  misjudged. 

"Jerry" — the  old  man's  voice  had  a  strange  gen 
tleness  in  that  hour,  however  flat  and  dry  it  was 
before  and  afterward — "Jerry,  you  understand 
about  things  here." 

He  waved  his  hand  as  if  to  take  in  "Eden," 
Aunt  Jerry  and  Cousin  Eugene  strolling  leisurely 
away  from  the  lily-pond,  himself,  the  Darby  heri 
tage,  and  the  unprofitable  Swaim  estate  in  the 
Sage  Brush  Valley  in  far-away  Kansas. 

"You've  never  been  crossed  in  your  We  ex 
cept  when  death  took  Jim.  You  don't  know  a 
thing  about  business,  nor  what  it  means  to  earn 
the  money  you  spend,  and  to  feel  the  independence 
that  comes  from  being  so  strong  in  yourself  you 
don't  have  to  submit  to  anybody's  will."  Cor 
nelius  Darby  spoke  as  one  who  had  dreamed  of 
these  things,  but  had  never  known  the  strength 
of  their  reality.  "And  last  of  all,"  he  concluded, 
"you  think  you  are  in  love  with  Eugene  Welling 
ton." 

Jerry  gave  a  start.  Uncle  Cornie  and  love! 
Anybody  and  love!  Only  in  her  day-dreams,  her 
wild  flights  of  adventure,  up  to  castles  builded  high 
in  air,  had  she  really  thought  of  love  for  herself — 
until  to-day.  And  now — Aunt  Jerry  had  hinted 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

awkwardly  enough  here  in  the  late  afternoon  of 
what  was  on  her  mind.  Cousin  Gene  had  held 
her  hand  and  said,  "I  want  to  say  something 
to  you."  How  full  of  light  his  eyes  had  been 
as  he  looked  at  her  then!  Jerry  felt  them  on 
her  still,  and  a  tingle  of  joy  went  pulsing 
through  her  whole  being.  Then  the  discus 
had  hurtled  across  the  doorway  and  Uncle 
Cornie  had  come,  not  knowing  that  these  two 
would  rather  be  alone.  At  least  he  didn't 
look  as  if  he  knew.  And  now  it  was  Uncle 
Cornie  himself  who  was  talking  of  love. 

"You  think  you  are  in  love  with  Eugene  Well 
ington,"  Uncle  Cornie  repeated,  "but  you're  not, 
Jerry.  You're  only  in  love  with  Love.  Some  day 
it  may  be  with  Gene,  but  it's  not  now.  He  just 
comes  nearer  to  what  you've  been  dreaming  about, 
and  so  you  think  you  are  in  love  with  him.  Jerry, 
I  don't  want  you  to  make  any  mistakes.  I've 
lived  a  sort  of  colorless  life" — the  man's  face  was 
ashy  gray  as  he  spoke — "but  once  in  a  while 
I've  thought  of  what  might  be  in  a  man's  days  if 
things  went  right  with  him  and  if  he  went  right 
with  himself." 

How  often  the  last  words  came  back  to  Jerry 
Swaim  when  she  recalled  the  events  of  this  evening 
— "if  he  went  right  himself." 

"And  I  don't  want  any  mistakes  made  that  I 
can  help." 

Uncle  Cornie's  other  hand  closed  gently  about 

34 


the  little  hand  that  lay  on  one  of  his.  How 
firm  and  white  and  shapely  it  was,  and  how  deter 
mined  and  fearless  the  grip  it  could  put  on  the 
steering-wheel  when  the  big  Darby  car  skidded 
dangerously!  And  how  flat  and  flabby  and 
yellow  and  characterless  was  the  hand  that  held 
it  close! 

"Come  on,  folks,  we  are  going  to  the  house  to 
have  some  music,"  Aunt  Jerry  called,  as  she  and 
Eugene  Wellington  came  across  the  lawn  from  the 
lily-pond. 

Mrs.  Darby,  sure  of  the  fruition  of  her  plans  now, 
was  really  becoming  pettishly  jealous  to-night.  A 
little  longer  she  wanted  to  hold  these  two  young 
people  under  her  absolute  dominion.  Of  course 
she  would  always  control  them,  but  when  they 
were  promised  to  each  other  there  would  arise  a 
kingdom  within  a  kingdom  which  she  could  never 
enter.  The  angry  voice  of  a  warped,  misused,  and 
withered  youth  was  in  her  soul,  and  the  jealousy 
of  loveless  old  age  was  no  little  fox  among  her 
vines  to-night.  Let  them  wait  on  her  a  little 
while.  One  evening  more  wouldn't  matter. 

As  the  two  approached  the  rose-arbor  Jerry's 
hand  touched  Uncle  Cornie's  cheek  in  a  loving 
caress — the  first  she  had  ever  given  him. 

"I  won't  forget  what  you  have  said,  Uncle 
Cornie,"  she  murmured,  softly,  as  she  rose  to  join 
her  aunt  and  Eugene. 

The    moonlight    flooding    the    lawn    touched 

35 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

Jerry's  golden  hair,  and  the  bloom  of  love  and 
youth  beautified  her  cheeks,  as  she  walked  away 
beside  the  handsome  young  artist  into  the  beauty 
of  the  June  night. 

"Come  on,  Cornelius."  Mrs.  Darby's  voice 
put  the  one  harsh  note  into  the  harmony  of  the 
moment. 

"As  soon  as  I  put  away  my  discus.  That  last 
throw  was  an  awkward  one,  and  a  lot  out  of  line 
for  me,"  he  answered,  in  his  dry,  flat  voice,  stoop 
ing  to  pick  up  the  implement  of  his  daily  pastime. 

Up  in  the  big  parlor,  Eugene  and  Jerry  played 
the  old  duets  they  had  learned  together  in  their 
childhood,  and  sang  the  old  songs  that  Jerusha 
Darby  had  heard  when  she  was  a  girl,  before  the 
lust  for  wealth  had  hardened  her  arteries  and 
dimmed  her  eyes  to  visions  that  come  only  to 
bless.  But  the  two  young  people  forgot  her  pres 
ence  and  seemed  to  live  the  hours  of  the  beautiful 
June  night  only  for  each  other. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  a  peal  of  thunder 
boomed  up  the  Winnowoc  Valley  and  the  end  of 
a  perfect  day  was  brilliant  in  the  grandeur  of  a 
June  shower,  with  skies  of  midnight  blackness 
cloven  through  with  long  shafts  of  lightning  or 
swept  across  by  billows  of  flame,  while  the  storm 
wind's  strong  arms  beat  the  earth  with  flails  of 
crystal  rain. 

"Where  is  Uncle  Cornie?  I  hadn't  missed  him 
before,"  Jerry  asked  as  the  three  in  the  parlor 

36 


UNCLE    CORNIE'S    THROW 

watched  the  storm  pouring  out  all  its  wrath  upon 
the  Winnowoc  Valley. 

"Oh,  he  went  to  put  up  his  old  discus,  and  then 
he  went  off  to  bed  I  suppose,"  Aunt  Jerry  replied, 
indifferently. 

Nothing  was  ever  farther  from  his  wife's  thought 
than  the  presence  of  Cornelius  Darby.  The  two 
had  never  lived  for  each  other;  they  had  lived  for 
the  accumulation  of  property  that  together  they 
might  gather  in. 

It  was  long  after  midnight  before  the  family 
retired.  The  moon  came  out  of  hiding  as  the 
storm-cloud  swept  eastward.  The  night  breezes 
were  cool  and  sweet,  scattering  the  flower  petals, 
that  the  shower  had  beaten  off,  in  little  perfumy 
cloudlets  about  the  rose-arbor  and  upon  its  stone 
door-step. 

It  was  long  after  Jerry  Swaim  had  gone  to  her 
room  before  she  slept.  Over  and  over  the  events 
of  the  day  passed  in  review  before  her  mind:  the 
city  shopping;  the  dainty  lunch  in  the  Delft  room 
at  La  Senorita;  the  art  exhibit  and  that  one  level 
gray  landscape  with  the  flaming,  gorgeous  sunset 
so  unlike  the  green-and-gold  sunset  landscape  of 
"  Eden  ";  the  homeward  ride  with  all  its  dangerous 
thrills;  the  talk  with  Aunt  Jerry;  Eugene,  Eugene, 
Eugene;  Uncle  Cornie  with  his  discus,  at  the  door 
of  the  rose-arbor,  and  all  that  he  had  said  to  her; 
the  old,  old  songs,  and  the  thunder-storm's  tre 
mendous  beauty,  and  Uncle  Cornie  again — and 

37 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

dreams  at  last,  and  Jim  Swaim,  big,  strong,  shrewd; 
and  Lesa,  sweet-faced,  visionary;  and  then  sound 
slumber  bringing  complete  oblivion. 

Last  to  sleep  and  first  to  waken  in  the  early 
morning  was  Jerry.  Happy  Jerry!  Nobody  as 
happy  as  she  was  could  sleep — and  yet — Uncle 
Cornie's  last  discus-throw  had  brought  new 
thoughts  that  would  not  slip  away  as  the  storm 
had  slipped  up  the  Winnowoc  into  nowhere.  A 
rift  in  the  lute,  a  cloud  speck  in  a  blue  June  sky, 
was  the  memory  of  what  Uncle  Cornie  had  told 
her  when  he  let  his  discus  roll  up  to  her  very  feet 
by  the  door  of  the  rose-arbor.  Jerry  Swaim  must 
not  be  troubled  with  lute  rifts  and  cloud  specks. 
The  call  of  the  early  morning  was  in  the  air,  the 
dewy,  misty,  rose-hued  dawning  of  a  beautiful 
day  in  a  beautiful  "Eden"  where  only  beautiful 
things  belong.  And  loveliest  among  them  all  wras 
Jerry  Swaim  in  her  pink  morning  dress,  her  glori 
ous  crown  of  hair  agleam  in  the  sun's  early  rays, 
her  blue  eye  full  of  light. 

The  sweetest  spot  to  her  in  all  "Eden"  on  this 
morning  was  the  rose-arbor.  It  belonged  to  her 
now  by  right  of  Eugene  and — Uncle  Cornie.  The 
snatches  of  an  old  love-ballad,  one  of  the  songs  she 
had  sung  with  Eugene  the  night  before,  were  on 
her  lips  as  she  left  the  veranda  and  passed  with 
light  step  down  the  lilac  walk  toward  the  arbor. 
The  very  grass  blades  seemed  to  sing  with  her, 
and  all  the  rain-washed  world  glowed  with  green 

38 


UNCLE    CORNIE'S    THROW 

and  gold  and  creamy  white,  pink  and  heliotrope 
and  rose. 

At  the  turn  of  the  walk  toward  the  arbor  Jerry 
paused  to  drink  in  the  richness  of  all  this  colorful 
scene.  And  then,  for  no  reason  at  all,  she  remem 
bered  what  Uncle  Cornie  had  said  about  his  color 
less  life.  Strange  that  she  had  never,  in  her  own 
frivolous  existence,  thought  of  him  in  that  way 
before.  But  with  the  alchemy  of  love  in  her  veins 
she  began  to  see  things  in  a  new  light.  His  had 
been  a  dull  existence.  If  Aunt  Jerry  ever  really 
loved  him  she  must  have  forgotten  it  long  ago. 
And  he  made  so  little  noise  in  the  world,  anyhow, 
it  was  easy  to  forget  that  he  was  in  it.  She  had 
forgotten  him  last  night  even  after  all  that  he 
had  said.  He  had  had  no  part  in  their  music,  nor 
the  beauty  of  the  storm. 

But  here  he  was  up  early  and  sitting  at  the 
doorway  of  the  rose-arbor  just  as  she  had  left 
him  last  night.  He  was  leaning  back  in  the  angle 
of  the  slightly  splintered  trellis,  his  colorless  face 
gray,  save  where  a  blue  line  ran  down  his  cheek 
from  a  blue-black  burn  on  his  temple,  his  color 
less  eyes  looking  straight  before  him;  the  dis 
cus  he  had  stooped  to  pick  up  in  the  twilight 
last  night  clasped  in  his  colorless  hands;  his  color 
less  life  race  run.  His  clothing,  soaked  by  the 
midnight  storm,  clung  wet  and  sagging  about  his 
shrunken  form.  But  the  rain-beaten  rose-vines 
had  showered  his  gray  head  with  a  halo  of  pink 

89 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

petals,  and  about  his  feet  were  drifts  of  fallen 
blossoms  flowing  out  upon  the  rich  green  sod. 
Nature  in  loving  pity  had  gently  decked  him  with 
her  daintiest  hues,  as  if  a  world  of  lavish  color 
would  wipe  away  in  a  sweep  of  June-time  beauty 
the  memory  of  the  lost  drab  years. 


m 

HITCHING   THE   WAGON   TO  A   STAR 

T)  EHIND  the  most  expensive  mourner's  crape 
*~-*  to  be  had  in  Philadelphia  Jerusha  Darby  hid 
the  least  mournful  of  faces.  Not  that  she  had 
not  been  shocked  that  one  bolt  out  of  all  that 
summer  storm-cloud,  barely  splintering  the  rose- 
arbor,  should  strike  the  head  leaning  against  it 
with  a  blow  so  faint  and  yet  so  fatal;  nor  that  she 
would  not  miss  Cornelius  and  find  it  very  incon 
venient  to  fill  his  place  in  her  business  manage 
ment.  Every  business  needs  some  one  to  fetch 
and  carry  and  play  the  watch-dog.  And  in  these 
days  of  expensive  labor  watch-dogs  come  high  and 
are  not  always  well  trained.  But  everybody  must 
go  sometime.  That  is,  everybody  else.  To  Mrs. 
Darby's  cast  of  mind  the  scheme  of  death  and  final 
reckoning  as  belonging  to  a  general  experience 
was  never  intended  for  her  individually.  After 
all,  things  work  out  all  right  under  Providential 
guidance.  Eugene  Wellington  was  a  fortunate 
provision  of  an  all-wise  Providence.  Eugene  had 
some  of  his  late  cousin's  ability.  He  would  come 

4  41 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

in  time  to  fill  the  vacant  chair  by  the  roll-top  desk 
in  the  city  banking  and  business  house.  More 
over,  to  the  eyes  of  age  he  was  a  thousandfold 
more  interesting  and  resourceful  than  the  color 
less  quiet  one  whose  loss  would  be  felt  of  course, 
of  course. 

The  reddest  roses  of  "Eden"  bloomed  the  next 
June  on  Cornelius  Darby's  grave,  the  brightest 
leaves  of  autumn  covered  him  warmly  from  the 
winter's  snows,  and  the  places  that  had  never 
felt  his  living  presence  missed  him  no  more 
forever. 

There  was  a  steady  downpour  of  summer  rain  on 
the  day  following  the  funeral  at  "Eden."  Mrs. 
Darby  was  very  busy  with  post-mortem  details 
and  Eugene  Wellington's  services  were  in  constant 
demand  by  her,  while  Jerry  Swaim  wandered  aim 
lessly  about  the  house  with  a  sense  of  the  useless- 
ness  of  her  existence  forcing  itself  upon  her  for 
the  first  time.  Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the 
big  rooms  with  all  their  luxurious  appointments 
seemed  unbearable,  she  slipped  down  the  sodden 
way  to  the  rose-arbor.  There  was  a  shower  of  new 
buds  showing  now  under  the  beneficence  of  the 
warm  rain,  and  all  the  withered  petals  of  fallen 
blossoms  were  swept  from  sight. 

As  Jerry  dropped  into  an  easy  willow  rocker 
her  eye  fell  on  the  splintered  angle  of  the  trellis 
by  the  doorway  where  Uncle  Cornie  had  sat  when 
the  last  summons  came  to  him.  A  folded  paper 

42 


HITCHING    THE    WAGON    TO    A    STAR 

lay  under  the  seat,  inside  the  door,  as  if  it  had 
been  blown  from  his  pocket  by  a  whirl  of  wind  in 
that  midnight  thunder-storm. 

Jerry  stared  at  the  paper  a  long  time  before  it 
occurred  to  her  to  pick  it  up.  At  last,  in  a  me 
chanical  way,  she  took  it  from  under  the  seat  and 
spread  it  out  on  the  broad  arm  of  her  chair.  As 
she  read  its  contents  her  listlessness  fell  away,  the 
dreamy  blue  eyes  glowed  with  a  new  light,  the 
firm  mouth  took  on  a  bit  more  of  firmness,  and  the 
strong  little  hands  holding  the  paper  did  not 
tremble. 

"A  claim  in  the  Sage  Brush  Valley  in  Kan 
sas."  Jerry  spoke  slowly.  "It  lies  in  Range — 
Township —  Oh,  that's  all  Greek  to  me!  They 
must  number  land  out  there  like  lots  in  the  pot 
ter's-field  corner  of  the  cemetery  that  we  drove 
by  yesterday.  Maybe  they  may  all  be  dead  ones, 
paupers  at  that,  in  Kansas.  It  is  controlled,  or 
something,  by  York  Macpherson  of  the  Macpher- 
son  Mortgage  Company  of  New  Eden — New  Eden 
— Kansas.  Uncle  Cornie  told  me  it  hadn't  brought 
any  income,  but  that  wasn't  York  Macpherson's 
fault.  Strange  that  I  remember  all  that  Uncle 
Cornie  said  here  the  other  night." 

The  girl  read  the  document  spread  out  before 
her  a  second  time.  When  she  lifted  her  face  again 
it  was  another  Jerry  Swaim  who  looked  out 
through  the  dark-blue  eyes.  The  rain  had  ceased 
falling.  A  cool  breeze  was  playing  up  the  Winno- 

43 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

woe  Valley,  and  low  in  the  west  shafts  of  sun 
light  were  piercing  the  thinning  gray  clouds. 

"Twelve  hundred  acres!  A  prince's  holdings! 
Why  'Eden'  has  only  two  hundred!  And  that  is 
at  New  Eden.  It  'hasn't  been  well  managed.'  I 
know  who's  going  to  manage  it  now.  I'm  the 
daughter  of  Jim  Swaim.  He  was  a  good  business 
man.  And  Aunt  Darby — "  A  smile  broke  the 
set  line  about  the  red  lips.  "I'd  never  dare  to 
say  she  didn't  understand  how  to  manage  things. 
Chief  of  Staff  to  the  General  who  runs  the  Uni 
verse,  she  is." 

Then  the  serious  mood  came  back  as  the  girl 
stared  out  at  the  meadows  and  growing  grain  of 
the  "Eden"  farmland.  A  sudden  resolve  had 
formed  in  her  mind — Jerry  Swaim  the  type  all 
her  own,  not  possible  to  forecast. 

"Father  wanted  me  to  know  what  it  means  to 
be  independent.  I'll  find  out.  If  this  'Eden* 
can  be  so  beautiful  and  profitable,  what  can  I 
not  make  out  of  twelve  hundred  acres,  in  a  New 
Eden?  And  it  will  be  such  a  splendid  lark,  just 
the  kind  of  thing  I  have  always  dreamed  of  doing. 
Aunt  Jerry  will  say  that  I'm  crazy,  or  that  I'm 
Lesa  Swaim's  own  child.  Well,  I  am,  but  there's  a 
big  purpose  back  of  it  all,  too,  the  purpose  my 
father  would  have  approved.  He  was  all  business 
— all  money-making — in  his  purposes,  it  seemed  to 
some  folks,  but  I  think  mother  knew  how  to  keep 
him  sweet.  Maybe  her  adventurous  spirit,  and 


44 


HITCHING    THE    WAGON    TO    A    STAR 

all  that,  kept  her  interesting  to  him,  and  her 
romancing  kept  him  her  lover,  instead  of  their 
growing  to  be  like  Uncle  Cornie  and  Aunt  Jerry. 
There's  something  else  in  the  world  besides  just 
getting  property — 'if  a  man  went  right  with  him 
self,'  Uncle  Cornie  said.  There  was  a  good  sermon 
in  those  seven  words.  Uncle  Cornie  preached 
more  to  me  than  the  man  who  officiated  at  the 
funeral  yesterday  could  ever  do.  'If  a  man  went 
right  with  himself.'  And  Eugene."  A  quick 
change  swept  Jerry  Swaim's  countenance.  "He 
said  he  wanted  to  say  something  to  me.  I  think 
I  know  what  he  wanted  to  say.  Maybe  he  will 
say  it  some  day,  but  not  yet,  not  yet.  Here  he 
comes  now." 

There  was  a  something  new,  unguessable,  and 
very  sweet  in  Jerry  Swaim's  face  as  Eugene  Well 
ington  came  striding  down  the  walk  to  the  rose- 
arbor. 

"I'm  through  at  last,  little  cousin,"  he  declared, 
dropping  into  a  seat  beside  her.  "Really,  Aunt 
Jerry  is  a  wonderful  woman.  She  seems  to  know 
most  of  the  details  of  Uncle  Comic's  business 
since  he  began  in  business.  But  now  and  then 
she  runs  against  something  that  takes  her  breath 
away.  Evidently  Uncle  Cornie  knew  a  lot  of  things 
he  didn't  tell  her  or  anybody  else.  She  doesn't 
like  to  meet  these  things.  It  makes  her  cross. 
She  sent  me  away  just  now  in  a  huff  because  she 
was  opening  up  a  new  line  that  I  think  she  didn't 

45 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

want  me  to  know  anything  about.  Something 
that  took  her  breath  away  at  first  glance.  But  she 
didn't  have  to  coax  me  off  the  place.  I  ran  out 
here  when  the  chance  came." 

How  handsome  and  well-groomed  he  was  sitting 
there  in  the  easy  willow  seat!  And  how  good  he 
had  been  to  Mrs.  Darby  in  these  trying  days!  A 
dozen  little  services  that  her  niece  had  overlooked 
had  come  naturally  to  his  hand  and  mind. 

The  words  of  Uncle  Cornie  came  into  Jerry 
Swaim's  mind  as  she  looked  at  him:  "He's  a  good 
fellow,  with  real  talent,  and  he'll  make  a  name  for 
himself  some  day.  He'll  make  a  decent  living, 
too,  independent  of  anybody's  aunts  and  uncles, 
but  he's  no  stronger- willed  nor  smarter  nor  better 
than  you  are."  A  thrill  of  pleasure  quickened  her 
pulse  at  the  recollection,  making  this  new  decision 
of  hers  the  more  firm. 

"It  has  seemed  like  a  month  since  we  sat  here 
the  evening  before  Uncle  Cornie  passed  away," 
Eugene  began.  "He  made  a  bad  discus-throw 
and  came  over  here  just  as  I  began  to  tell  you 
something,  Jerry.  Do  you  remember  what  we  were 
saying  when  he  appeared  on  the  scene?" 

"Yes,  I  remember."  Jerry's  voice  was  low,  but 
there  was  no  quaver  in  it. 

Her  face,  as  she  lifted  it,  seemed  to  his  eyes  the 
one  face  he  could  never  paint.  For  him  it  was 
the  fulfilment  of  a  man's  best  dream. 

"There's  only  one  grief  in  my  heart  at  this 

46 


HITCHING    THE    WAGON    TO    A    STAR 

minute — that  I  can  never  put  your  face  as  it  is 
now  on  any  canvas.  But  let  me  tell  you  some 
things  that  Aunt  Jerry  has  been  telling  me.  She 
seems  so  fond  of  you,  and  she  says  that  after  all 
the  claims  against  your  father's  estate  are  settled 
there  is  really  no  income  left  for  you.  But  she 
assures  me  that  it  makes  no  difference,  because 
you  can  go  on  living  with  her  exactly  as  you  have 
always  done.  She  told  me  she  had  never  failed  in 
the  fruition  of  a  single  plan  of  hers,  and  she  is  too 
old  to  fail  now.  She  has  some  plan  for  you — " 
The  young  artist  hesitated. 

Jerry  had  never  thought  much  about  his  good 
looks  until  in  these  June  days  in  "Eden"  when 
Love  had  come  noiselessly  down  the  way  to  her. 
And  yet — a  little  faint,  irresolute  line  in  the 
man's  face — a  mere  shadow,  a  ghost  of  nothing 
at  all,  fixed  itself  in  her  image  of  his  countenance. 
A  quick  intuition  flashed  into  her  mind  with  the 
last  words. 

"Aunt  Jerry  is  too  old  for  lots  of  things  besides 
the  failure  of  her  plans.  I  know  what  she  said, 
Gene,  because  I  know  what  she  thinks.  She  isn't 
exactly  fond  of  me;  she  wants  to  control  me.  I 
believe  there  are  only  two  planes  of  existence 
with  her — one  of  absolute  rule,  and  the  other  of 
absolute  submission.  She  couldn't  conceive  of 
me  in  the  first  plane,  of  course,  so  I  must  be  in 
the  second." 

"Why,   Geraldine  Swaim,  I  never  heard  you 

47 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

speak  so  of  your  aunt  before!"  Eugene  Wellington 
exclaimed.  He  had  caught  a  new  and  very  real 
line  in  the  girl's  face  as  she  spoke. 

"Maybe  not.  But  don't  go  Geraldine-ing  me. 
It's  too  Aunt  Jerry-ish.  I'm  coming  to  understand 
her  better  because  I'm  doing  my  own  thinking 
now,"  Jerry  replied. 

"As  if  you  hadn't  always  done  that,  you  little 
tyrant !  I  bear  the  scars  of  your  teeth  on  my  arms 
now — or  I  would  bear  them  if  I  hadn't  given  up 
to  you  a  thousand  times  years  ago,"  Eugene  de 
clared,  laughingly. 

"That's  just  it,"  Jerry  replied.  "I've  been  let 
to  have  my  own  way  until  Aunt  Jerry  thinks  I 
must  go  on  having  just  what  she  thinks  I  want, 
and  to  do  that  I  must  be  dependent  on  her.  And — 
Wait  a  minute,  Gene — you  will  be  dependent  on 
her,  too.  You  have  only  your  gift.  So  both  of 
us  are  to  be  pensioners  of  hers.  That's  her  plan." 

"I  won't  be,"  Eugene  Wellington  declared, 
stoutly.  And  then,  in  loving  thought  of  Jerry,  he 
added:  "I  don't  want  to,  Jerry.  I  want  to  do 
great  things,  the  best  that  God  has  given  me  to 
do,  not  merely  for  myself,  but  for  your  sake — and 
for  all  the  world.  That  seems  to  me  to  be  what 
artists  are  for." 

"And  I  won't  be,  either,"  Jerry  insisted.  "I 
won't.  You  needn't  look  so  incredulous.  Let  me 
tell  you  something.  The  evening  before  Uncle 
Cornie  died — '  Jerry  broke  off  suddenly. 

48 


HITCHING    THE    WAGON    TO    A    STAR 

It  seemed  unfair  to  betray  the  one  burst  of 
confidence  that  the  colorless  old  man  had  given 
up  to  on  the  last  evening  of  his  earthly  life.  Jerry 
knew  that  it  was  to  her,  and  for  her  alone,  that 
he  had  spoken. 

"This  is  what  I  want  to  tell  you.  I  have  no 
income  now.  Aunt  Jerry  is  right,  although  she 
never  told  me  that  herself.  But  I  have  a  plan  to 
make  a  living  for  myself." 

Eugene  Wellington  leaned  back  and  laughed 
aloud.  "You,  Miss  Geraldine  Swaim,  who  never 
earned  a  dollar  in  your  precious  life !  I  always  knew 
you  were  a  dreamer,  but  you  are  going  wrong  now, 
Jerry.  You  must  look  out  for  belfry  bats  under 
that  golden  thatch  of  yours.  Only  artists  dare 
those  wild  flights  so  far — and  they  do  it  only  on 
canvas  and  then  get  rejected  by  the  hanging 
committee." 

Jerry  paid  no  heed  to  his  bantering  words  as 
she  went  on  with  serious  earnestness:  "My 
estate — from  my  father — is  a  claim  out  at  New 
Eden,  Kansas.  Twelve  hundred  acres.  It  has 
never  been  managed  well,  consequently  it  has 
never  paid  well.  Look  at  'Eden'  here" — Jerry 
lifted  a  hand  for  silence  as  Eugene  was  about  to 
speak — "it  has  only  two  hundred  acres.  Now 
multiply  it  by  six  and  you'll  have  New  Eden  out 
in  Kansas.  And  I  own  it.  And  I  am  going  to 
manage  it.  And  I  am  not  going  to  be  dependent 
on  anybody.  Won't  it  be  one  big  lark  for  me  to 

49 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

go  clear  to  the  Sage  Brush  Valley?  If  it  is  as  beau 
tiful  as  the  Winnowoc,  just  think  of  its  possibili 
ties.  It  will  be  perfectly  grand  to  feel  oneself  so 
free  and  self-reliant.  And  when  we  have  won  out, 
you  by  your  brush  and  I  by  my  Kansas  farm, 
then,  oh,  Gene,  how  splendid  life  will  be!" 

The  big,  dreamy  eyes  were  full  of  light.  The 
level  beams  of  the  sun  stretched  far  across  green 
meadows  and  shaven  lawns,  between  tall  lilac- 
trees,  to  the  rose-arbor,  just  to  glorify  that  rip 
pling  mass  of  brown-shadowed  golden  hair. 

"Jerry" — Eugene  Wellington's  voice  trembled 
— "you  are  the  most  wonderful  girl  in  the  world. 
I  am  so  proud  of  you.  But,  dear  girl,  it  is  an  old, 
threadbare  fancy,  this  going  to  Kansas  to  get  rich. 
My  father  tried  it  years  ago.  He  had  a  vision  of 
great  things,  too.  He  failed.  Not  only  that,  he 
ruined  everybody  connected  with  him.  That's 
why  I'm  poor  to-day.  Truly,  little  cousin  mine,  I 
don't  believe  the  good  Lord,  who  makes  Edens 
like  this  in  the  Winnowoc  Valley,  ever  intended 
for  well-bred  people  to  leave  them  and  go  New- 
Eden-hunting  in  the  Sage  Brush  Valley.  We 
belong  here  where  all  the  beauty  of  nature  is 
about  us  and  the  care  of  a  loving  God  is  over  us. 
Why  do  you  want  to  go  to  Kansas?  I  wouldn't 
know  how  to  pray  out  there  where  my  father  made 
such  a  botch  of  living.  I  really  wouldn't." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  pray  here,  Gene,"  Jerry 
said,  softly,  with  no  trace  of  flippant  irreverence 

50 


HITCHING   THE   WAGON    TO   A    STAR 

in  her  tone.  "I  forgot  how  to  do  that  when  God 
took  my  father  away.  But  listen  to  me."  The 
imperious  power  of  the  uncontrolled  will  was 
Jerry's  always.  "You  don't  live  here;  you  stay 
here.  And  you  take  a  piece  of  canvas  and  go  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth  on  it,  or  down  to  the  deeps, 
or  into  the  heavens.  You  make  what  never  did 
and  never  will  be,  with  your  free  brush.  And 
folks  call  it  good  and  you  earn  a  living  by  it.  You 
are  an  artist.  I  am  a  foolish  dreamer,  but  I  am 
going  out  to  Kansas  and  work  my  dreams  into 
reality  and  beauty — and  money — in  a  New  Eden. 
If  the  Lord  isn't  there,  I  shall  not  mind  any  more 
than  I  do  here.  I  am  going  to  Kansas,  though, 
because  I  want  to." 

"Look,  Jerry,  at  the  sunset  yonder,"  Eugene 
said,  gently,  knowing  of  old  what  "I  want" 
meant.  "They  couldn't  have  such  pictures  of 
green  and  gold  out  West  as  we  see  framed  in  here 
by  the  lilacs.  You  always  have  been  a  determined 
little  girl,  so  you  will  have  your  own  way  now,  I 
suppose.  We  can  try  it,  anyhow,  for  a  while. 
And  if  you  find  your  way  a  rocky  road  you  must 
come  back  to  'Eden.'  WTien  your  new  play 
things  fail,  you  can  play  with  the  old  ones.  But 
I  really  love  your  spirit  of  self-reliance.  I  don't 
want  you  ever  to  be  dependent.  I  don't  want 
any  other  Jerry  than  I  have  always  known.  And 
I  want  to  work  hard  and  make  my  little  talent 
pay  me  big,  and  make  you  proud  of  me." 

51 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"We  are  living  a  real  romance,  Gene.  And 
we'll  be  true  to  our  word  to  make  the  best  of  our 
selves  and  not  let  Aunt  Jerry  frighten  us  into 
changing  our  plans,  will  we,  Gene?  My  father's 
wish  for  me  was  that  I  should  not  always  be  a 
spender  of  other  folks's  incomes,  but  that  I  would 
find  out  what  it  means  to  live  my  own  life.  I 
never  knew  that  until  last  week.  Everything 
seems  changed  for  me  since  Uncle  Cornie  died. 
Isn't  it  strange  how  suddenly  we  drop  off  one 
life  and  take  up  another?'*  Jerry's  eyes  were  on 
the  deepening  gold  of  the  sunset  sky. 

"Yes,  we  have  been  two  idlers.  I'm  glad  to 
quit  the  job.  But,  somehow,  for  you  I  could  wish 
that  you  would  stay  here,  if  you  were  only  satisfied 
to  do  it,'*  Eugene  replied. 

"I  don't  wish  it."  Jerry  spoke  decisively.  "I 
couldn't  be  happy,  now  I've  this  splendid  Kansas 
thing  to  think  about.  Let's  go  and  tell  Aunt  Jerry 
and  have  it  out  with  her." 

"And  if  she  says  no?"  the  young  man  queried. 

Jerry  Swaim  paused  in  the  doorway  and  looked 
straight  into  Eugene  Wellington's  face,  without 
saying  a  word. 

"Geraldine  Swaim,  there  was  a  big  mistake 
made  in  your  baptismal  ceremony.  You  should 
have  been  christened  'The  Sphinx.'  Some  day 
I'll  make  a  canvas  of  the  Egyptian  product  and 
put  your  face  on  it.  After  all,  are  you  really 
in  earnest  about  this  Sage  Brush  Valley  New 

52 


HITCHING    THE    WAGON    TO    A    STAR 

Eden?  It  is  so  lovely  here,  I  want  you  to  stay 
here." 

Again  Jerry  looked  at  him  without  speaking, 
and  that  faint  line  of  indecision  that  scarcely  hinted 
at  its  own  existence  fixed  itself  in  the  substratum  of 
her  memory. 

Mrs.  Darby  met  the  young  people  in  the  parlor, 
where  only  a  few  nights  ago  the  three  had  watched 
the  summer  storm,  not  knowing  that  it  was  beat 
ing  down  on  the  unconscious  form  of  Cornelius 
Darby.  Mrs.  Darby  felt  sure  that  the  young 
people  would  be  coming  to  her  to-night.  Well — 
the  end  of  her  plan  was  in  sight  now.  Really,  it 
may  have  been  better  for  Cornelius  to  have  gone 
when  he  did,  since  we  must  all  go  sometime. 
Indeed,  it  would  have  been  better — only  Jerusha 
Darby  never  knew  that — if  Cornelius  had  gone 
before  that  discus-throw.  Everything  might  have 
been  different  if  he  had  gone  earlier.  But  he  lost 
the  opportunity  of  his  life  to  serve  his  wife  by 
staying  over  and  making  one  awkward  fling  too 
many. 

The  June  evening  was  cool  after  the  long  rains. 
Aunt  Jerry  had  a  tiny  wood  fire  burning  in  the 
parlor  grate,  and  the  tall  lamps  with  the  rose- 
colored  shades  lighted  to  add  a  touch  of  twilight 
charm  to  the  place,  when  the  young  lovers  came  in. 
"Aunt  Jerry,  we  want  to  tell  you  what  we  have 
been  talking  about,"  Eugene  began,  when  the 
three  were  seated  together.  "Jerry  and  I  have 

53 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

decided  that  we  must  look  on  life  differently  now 
since — "  Eugene  hesitated. 

"Yes,  I  know/'  Mrs.  Darby  spoke  briskly. 
"We  must  face  the  truth  now  and  speak  of  Cor 
nelius  freely.  He  was  fond  of  both  of  you.  Poor 
Cornelius !" 

"Poor  Cornelius,"  Jerry  Swaim  repeated,  under 
her  breath. 

"Of  course  I  know  it  is  difficult  for  a  girl  reared 
as  Jerry  has  been — "  Eugene  began  again. 

"She  can  go  on  living  just  as  she  has  been. 
This  will  be  her  home  always/'  Mrs.  Darby  broke 
in,  abruptly. 

"And  I  know  that  I  have  nothing  but  the 
prospect  of  earning  a  living  and  winning  to  a 
successful  career  in  my  line — "  the  young  man 
went  on. 

"Hasn't  Jerry  the  prospect  of  enough  for  her 
self?  I'll  need  you  to  help  me  for  several  months. 
You  know,  Eugene,  that  I  must  have  some  one 
who  understands  Cornelius's  way  of  doing  things." 
There  was  more  of  command  than  request  in  the 
older  woman's  voice. 

"I'll  be  glad  to  help  you  as  long  as  I  am  needed, 
but  I  am  speaking  now  of  my  life-work.  When  I 
cannot  serve  you  any  longer  I  must  begin  on  my 
own  career.  I  have  some  hopes  and  plans  for 
the  future." 

"Humph!  What's  the  use  of  talking  about  it? 
I  tell  you  Jerry  will  have  enough  for  all  her  needs, 

54 


HITCHING    THE    WAGON    TO    A    STAR 

and  I  want  you  here.  I  shall  not  consider  any 
more  such  notions,  Eugene.  You  are  both  going 
to  stay  right  here  as  you  have  done.  Let's  talk  of 
something  else." 

"We  can't  yet,  Aunt  Jerry,  because  I  have  not 
enough  for  myself,  even  if  Gene  would  accept  a 
living  from  you,"  Jerry  Swaim  declared. 

Jerusha  Darby  opened  her  narrow  eyes  and 
stared  at  her  niece.  If  the  older  woman  had  made 
one  plea  of  loneliness,  if  she  had  even  hinted  at 
sorrow  for  the  loss  of  the  companion  of  her  busi 
ness  transactions,  Jerry  Swaim  would  have  felt 
uncomfortable,  even  though  she  knew  her  aunt 
too  well  to  be  deceived  by  any  such  demonstration. 

"Geraldine  Swaim,  what  are  you  saying?"  Mrs. 
Darby  demanded,  in  a  hard,  even  voice.  Some 
thing  in  her  manner  and  face  could  always  hold 
even  the  brave-spirited  in  frightened  awe  of  her. 

Eugene  Wellington  lost  courage  to  go  on,  and 
the  same  thing  came  again  that  Jerry  Swaim  had 
twice  seen  on  his  face  in  the  rose-arbor  this  eve 
ning.  The  two  were  looking  straight  at  the  girl 
now.  The  firelight  played  with  the  golden  glory 
of  her  hair  and  deepened  the  rose  hue  of  her  round 
cheeks.  The  dark-blue  eyes  seemed  almost  black, 
with  a  gleam  in  their  depths  that  meant  trouble, 
and  there  was  a  strength  in  the  low  voice  as  Jerry 
went  on: 

"I'm  talking  about  what  I  know,  Aunt  Jerry. 
All  there  is  of  my  heritage  from  my  father  is  a 

55 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

*  claim/  they  call  it,  at  New  Eden,  in  the  Sage 
Brush  Valley  in  Kansas;  twelve  hundred  acres. 
I'm  going  out  there  to  manage  it  myself  and  sup 
port  myself  on  an  income  of  my  own." 

For  a  long  minute  Jerusha  Darby  looked  stead 
ily  at  her  niece,  her  own  face  as  hard  and  impen 
etrable  as  if  it  were  carven  out  of  flint.  Then  she 
said,  sharply: 

"Where  did  you  find  out  all  this?" 

"It  is  all  in  a  document  here  that  I  found  in  the 
rose-arbor  this  afternoon,"  the  girl  replied.  "Aunt 
Jerry,  I  must  use  what  is  mine.  I  wouldn't  be  a 
Swaim  if  I  didn't." 

"You  won't  stay  there  two  weeks."  Mrs.  Darby 
fairly  clicked  out  the  words.  Her  face  was  very 
pale  and  something  like  real  fright  looked  through 
her  eyes  as  she  took  the  paper  from  her  niece's 
hand. 

"And  then?"  Jerry  inquired,  demurely. 

"And  then  you  will  come  back  here  where 
you  belong  and  live  as  you  always  have  lived,  in 
comfort." 

"And  if  I  do  not  come?" 

Jerusha  Darby's  face  was  not  pleasant  to  see 
just  then.  The  firelight  that  made  the  girl  more 
winsomely  pretty  seemed  to  throw  into  relief  all 
the  hard  lines  of  a  countenance  which  selfishness 
and  stubbornness  and  a  dictatorial  will  had  graven 
there. 

"Jerry  Swaim,  you  are  building  up  a  wild,  ad- 

56 


HITCHING    THE    WAGON    TO    A    STAR 

venturous  dream.  You  are  Lesa  Swaim  over  and 
over.  You  want  a  lark,  that's  what  you  want. 
And  it's  you  who  have  put  Eugene  up  to  his  no 
tions  of  a  career  and  all  that.  Listen  to  me. 
Nothing  talks  in  this  world  like  money.  That  you 
have  to  have  for  your  way  of  living,  and  that  he's 
got  to  have  if  he  wants  to  be  what  he  should  be. 
Well,  go  on  out  to  Kansas.  You  know  more  of 
that  prosperous  property  out  there  than  I  do.  I'll 
let  you  find  it  out  to  the  last  limit.  But  when 
you  come  back  you  must  promise  me  never  to 
take  another  such  notion.  I  won't  stand  this 
foolishness  forever.  I'll  give  you  plenty  of  money 
to  get  there.  You  can  write  me  when  you  need 
funds  to  come  back.  It  won't  take  long  to  get 
that  letter  here." 

"And  if  I  shouldn't  come?"  Jerry  asked,  calmly. 

"Look  what  you  are  giving  up.  All  this  beau 
tiful  home,  to  say  nothing  of  the  town  house — and 
Eugene — and  other  property." 

"No,  no;  you  don't  count  him  as  your  property, 
do  you?"  Jerry  cried,  turning  to  the  young  artist, 
whose  face  was  very  pale. 

"Jerry,  must  you  make  this  sacrifice?"  he  asked, 
in  a  voice  of  tenderness. 

"It  isn't  a  sacrifice;  it's  just  what  I  want  to 
do,"  Jerry  declared,  lightly. 

Jerusha  Darby's  face  darkened.  The  effect  of 
a  long  and  absolute  exercise  of  will,  coupled  with 
ample  means,  can  make  the  same  kind  of  a  tyrant 

5  57 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

out  of  a  Kaiser  and  a  rich  aunt.  The  determina 
tion  to  have  her  own  way  in  this  matter,  as  she 
had  had  in  all  other  matters,  became  at  once  an 
unbreakable  purpose  in  her.  She  wanted  to  keep 
fast  hold  of  these  young  people  for  her  own  sake, 
not  for  theirs.  For  a  little  while  she  sat  measur 
ing  the  two  with  her  narrow,  searching  eyes. 

"I  can  manage  him  best,"  she  concluded  to 
herself.  At  last  she  asked,  plaintively,  "With  all 
you  have  here,  Jerry,  why  do  you  go  hunting  op 
portunities  in  Kansas?" 

"Because  I  want  to,*'  Jerry  replied,  and  her 
aunt  knew  that,  so  far  as  Jerry  was  concerned, 
everything  was  settled. 

"Then  we'll  drop  the  matter  here.  I  can  wait 
for  you  to  come  to  your  senses.  Eugene,  if  you  can 
give  her  up,  when  you've  always  been  chums,  I 
certainly  can." 

With  these  words  Mrs.  Darby  rose  and  passed 
out,  leaving  the  two  alone  under  the  rose-colored 
lights  of  the  richly  furnished  parlor. 

It  was  not  like  Jerusha  Darby  to  make  such  a 
concession,  and  Jerry  Swaim  knew  it,  but  Eu 
gene  Wellington,  who  was  of  alien  blood,  did  not 
know  it. 

The  room  was  much  more  beautiful  without  her 
presence;  and  her  sordid  hinting  at  the  Darby 
wealth  which  Jerry  must  count  on,  and  Eugene 
must  meekly  help  to  guard  for  future  gain,  rasped 
.harshly  against  their  souls,  for  they  were  young 

58 


and  more  sentimental  than  practical.  Left  alone 
to  their  youth,  and  strength,  and  nobler  ideals, 
they  vowed  that  night  to  hold  to  better  things. 
Together  they  builded  a  dream  of  a  rainbow- 
tinted  world  which  they  were  going  bravely  forth 
to  create.  Of  what  should  follow  that  they  did 
not  speak,  yet  each  one  guessed  what  was  in  the 
other's  mind,  as  men  and  maidens  have  always 
guessed  since  love  began.  And  on  this  night  there 
were  no  serpents  at  all  in  their  Eden. 


IV 

BETWEEN   EDENS 

sun  of  a  mid -June  day  glared  down 
pitilessly  on  the  little  station  at  the  junc 
tion  of  the  Sage  Brush  branch  with  the  main  line. 
There  was  not  a  tree  in  sight.  The  south  wind  was 
raving  across  the  prairie,  swirling  showers  of  fine 
sand  before  it.  Its  breath  came  hot  against  Jerry 
Swaim's  cheek  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the 
station  or  wandered  grimly  down  between  the 
shining  rails  that  stretched  toward  a  boundless  no- 
wThere  whither  the  "through"  train  had  vanished 
nearly  two  hours  ago.  As  Jerry  watched  it  leaving, 
a  sudden  heaviness  weighed  down  upon  her.  And 
when  the  Pullman  porter's  white  coat  on  the  rear 
platform  of  the  last  coach  melted  into  the  dull, 
diminishing  splotch  on  the  western  distance,  she 
felt  as  if  she  were  shipwrecked  in  a  pathless  land, 
with  the  little  red  station  house,  reefed  about  by 
cinders,  as  the  only  resting-place  for  the  soles  of 
her  feet.  When  her  eyes  grew  weary  of  the  monoto 
nous  landscape,  Jerry  rested  them  with  what  she 
called  "A  Kansas  Interior."  The  rustic  station  un- 

60 


BETWEEN    EDENS 

der  the  maples  at  "Eden"  was  always  clean  and 
comfortably  appointed.  Big  flower-beds  outside, 
Uncle  Cornie's  gift,  belonged  to  the  station  and 
its  guests,  with  the  spacious  grounds  of  "Eden," 
at  which  the  travelers  might  gaze  without  cost, 
lying  just  beyond  it. 

This  "Kansas  Interior"  seemed  only  a  degree 
less  inviting  than  the  whole  monotonous  universe 
outside.  The  dust  of  ages  dimmed  the  windows 
that  were  propped  and  nailed  and  otherwise  se 
cured  against  the  entrance  of  cool  summer  breezes, 
or  the  outlet  of  bad,  overheated  air  in  winter. 
Iron-partitioned  seats,  invention  of  the  Evil  One 
himself,  stalled  off  three  sides  of  the  room,  intend 
ing  to  prove  the  principle  that  no  one  body  can 
occupy  two  spaces  at  the  same  time.  In  the  center 
of  the  room  a  "plain,  unvarnished"  stove,  bare 
and  bald,  stood  on  a  low  pedestal  yellowed  with 
time  and  tobacco  juice.  A  dingy,  fly-specked  map 
of  the  entire  railway  system  hung  askew  on  the 
wall — very  fat  and  foreshortened  as  to  its  own 
extent,  very  attenuated  and  ill-proportioned  as  to 
other  insignificant  systems  cutting  spidery  lines 
across  it. 

Behind  a  sealed  tomb  of  a  ticket-window  Jerry 
could  hear  the  "tick-tick,  tick-a-tick-tick,  tick- 
tick"  of  a  telegraph- wire.  Somebody  must  be  in 
there  who  at  set  times,  like  a  Saint  Serapion  from 
his  hermit  cell,  might  open  this  blank  wall  and 
speak  in  almost  human  tones.  Just  now  the  soli- 

61 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

tude  of  the  grave  prevailed,  save  for  that  ever 
lasting  "tick-a-tick"  behind  the  wall. 

When  Jerry  Swaim  gripped  her  hands  on  the 
plow  handles,  there  would  be  no  looking  back. 
She  persuaded  herself  that  she  wasn't  going  to 
die  of  the  jiggermaroos  in  the  empty  nothingness 
here.  It  would  be  very  different  at  New  Eden, 
she  was  sure  of  that.  And  this  York  Macpherson 
must  be  a  nice  old  man,  honest  and  easy-going, 
because  he  had  never  realized  any  income  from 
her  big  Kansas  estate.  She  pictured  York  easily — 
a  short,  bald-headed  old  gentleman  with  gray 
burnsides  and  benevolent  pale-blue  eyes  behind 
gold-rimmed  glasses,  driving  a  fat  sorrel  nag  to 
an  easy-going  old  Rockaway  buggy,  carrying  a 
gold-headed  cane  given  him  by  the  Sunday-school. 
Jerry  had  seen  his  type  all  her  life  in  the  business 
circles  of  Philadelphia  and  among  the  better-to-do 
country-dwellers  around  "Eden.'* 

At  last  it  was  only  fifteen  minutes  till  the  Sage 
Brush  train  would  be  due;  then  she  could  find  com 
fort  in  her  Pullman  berth.  She  wondered  what 
Aunt  Jerry  and  Eugene  were  doing  now.  She  had 
slipped  away  from  "Eden"  on  her  wild  adventure 
in  the  early  dawn.  She  had  taken  leave  of  Aunt 
Jerry  the  night  before.  Old  women  need  their 
beauty  sleep  in  the  morning,  even  if  foolish  young 
things  are  breaking  all  the  laws  by  launching  out 
to  hunt  their  fortunes.  Eugene  had  been  hurriedly 
sent  away  on  Darby  estate  matters  without  the  op- 

62 


BETWEEN    EDENS 

portunity  of  a  leave-taking,  two  days  before  Jerry 
was  ready  to  start  for  Kansas.  Everything  was 
prearranged,  evidently,  to  make  this  going  a  diffi 
cult  one.  So,  without  a  single  good-by  to  speed 
her  on  her  quest,  the  young  girl  had  gone  out  from 
a  sheltering  Eden  of  beauty  and  idleness.  But 
the  tears  that  had  dimmed  her  eyes  came  only 
when  she  left  the  lilac  walk  to  the  station  to  slip 
around  by  Uncle  Cornie's  grave  beside  the  green- 
coverleted  resting-places  of  Jim  and  Lesa  Swaim. 

"Maybe  mother  would  glory  in  what  I  am  do 
ing,  and  father  might  say  I  had  the  right  stuff 
in  me.  And  Uncle  Cornie — 'If  a  man  went  right 
with  himself — Uncle  Cornie  might  have  said  'if  a 
woman  went  right  with  herself,*  too.  I'm  going 
to  put  that  meaning  into  his  words,  even  if  he 
never  seemed  to  think  much  of  women.  Oh, 
father!  Oh,  mother!  You  lived  before  you  died, 
anyhow,  and  I'm  going  to  do  the  same.  Uncle 
Cornie  died  before  he  ever  really  lived." 

Jerry  stretched  out  her  hands  to  the  one  good- 
by  in  "Eden"  coming  to  her  from  these  silent 
ripples  of  dewy  green  sod.  Then  youth  and  the 
June  morning  and  the  lure  of  adventure  into  new 
lands  came  with  their  triple  strength  to  buoy  her 
up  to  do  and  dare.  Behind  her  were  her  lover 
to  be — for  Eugene  must  love  her — her  home  ties, 
luxury,  dependent  inactivity.  Before  her  lay 
the  very  ends  of  the  earth,  the  Kansas  end  espe 
cially.  The  spirit  of  Sir  Galahad,  of  Robinson 

63 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

Crusoe,  of  Don  Quixote,  combined  with  the  spirit 
of  a  self-willed,  inexperienced  girl,  but  dimly  con 
scious  yet  of  what  lay  back  of  her  determination 
to  go  forth — because  she  wanted  to  go. 

Chicago  and  Kansas  City  offered  easy  ports  for 
clearing.  And  the  Kaw  Valley,  unrolling  its  broad 
acres  along  the  way,  gave  larger  promise  than  Jerry 
had  yet  dared  to  dream  of  for  the  New  Eden  far 
ther  west.  The  train  service,  after  the  manner  of 
a  Pacific  Coast  limited,  had  been  perfect  in  every 
appointment.  And  then — this  junction  episode. 

Two  eternity-long  hours  before  the  Sage  Brush 
branch  could  take  her  to  New  Eden  were  almost 
ended. 

"It's  not  so  terrifying,  after  all."  Jerry  was  be 
ginning  to  "see  things  again."  "It's  all  in  the 
game — and  I  am  going  to  be  as  'game'  as  the  thing 
I  am  playing.  Things  always  come  round  all 
right  for  me.  They  must." 

The  square  white  chin  was  very  much  a  family 
feature  just  now.  And  the  shapely  hands  had  no 
hint  of  weakness  in  their  grip  on  the  iron  arms  of 
the  station  seat. 

The  door  which  the  wind  had  slammed  shut 
was  slammed  open  again  as  three  prospective 
passengers  for  the  Sage  Brush  train  slammed 
through  it  laden  with  luggage.  At  the  same  time 
the  sealed-up  ticket-window  flew  open,  showing 
the  red,  grinning  face  of  the  tick-tick  man  be 
hind  its  iron  bars.  If  Jerry  had  never  paid  the 

64 


BETWEEN    EDENS 

slightest  heed  to  the  bunch  of  grubs  on  the  Win- 
nowoc  branch,  except  as  they  kept  down  the  ven 
tilation,  or  crowded  their  odors  of  Limburger  on 
her  offended  senses,  the  Sage  Brush  grubs  were 
a  thousandfold  less  worthy  of  her  consideration. 
As  the  three  crowded  to  the  ticket-window,  laugh 
ing  among  themselves,  she  stared  through  the 
doorway,  unconsciously  reading  the  names  on  the 
cars  of  a  freight-train  slowly  heaving  down  along 
side  the  station.  Who  invented  freight-cars,  any 
how?  The  most  uninteresting  and  inartistic  thing 
ever  put  on  wheels  by  the  master  mechanic  of  the 
unbeautiful,  created  mainly  to  shut  off  the  view 
of  mankind  from  what  is  really  worth  looking  at. 
Jerry  read  the  dulled  lettering  mechanically: 
"Santa  F6"  with  its  symbol  of  a  fat  cross  in  a 
circle,  "Iron  Mountain/*  "Great  Northern," 
"Rock  Island,"  "Frisco,"  "Union  Pacific," 
"Grand  Trunk,"  came  creeping  by.  "New  York 
Central,"  "Lehigh  Valley,"  "Pennsylvania  Line." 
These  took  her  back  to  "Eden"  and  the  Winnowoc 
country.  The  station  building  shook;  the  ugly 
old  cars  slam-banged  a  bit  faster  back  and  forth; 
the  engine,  with  the  breath  almost  knocked  out  of 
it,  was  puffing  down  by  the  switch,  and  the  whole 
body  behind  it  quivered  to  a  standstill.  But  Jerry 
Swaim's  tear-blurred  eyes  were  seeing  only  the 
green  fields  of  the  Darby  country-place  and  the 
rose-arbor  and  Eugene  Wellington.  A  voice  loud, 
but  not  unpleasant,  and  a  laugh,  a  merry,  catching, 

65 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

giggling  guffaw,  drove  the  picture  of  "Eden"  and 
all  that  belonged  to  it  into  "viewless  air"  that 
went  flapping  and  flaring  across  the  Kansas  land 
scape. 

"You  don't  mean  it!  He,  he!  Haw!"  Every 
body  must  smile  now.  "The  old  Sage  Brush  local 
is  locoed  'way  up  toward  S'liny.  Engine  shortage, 
car  shortage,  common  sense  shortage.  He,  he! 
And  we  must  ride  in  that  sunflower  de  luxe  limited 
standing  out  there.  Come  on,  Thelmy.  You  can 
take  lower  nothin',  car  one-half.  We'll  soar  in 
now  while  the  soarin's  good." 

Jerry  looked  at  the  bunch  of  grubs  for  the  first 
time.  One  had  to  see  where  that  big  gloom-chasing 
giggle  came  from.  Thelma  was  a  spotlessly  clean, 
well-made  country  product,  wherein  the  girl  had 
easily  given  place  to  the  woman,  erect,  full- 
bosomed,  strong  of  frame.  The  hazel  eyes  were 
arched  over  by  heavy  brown  brows.  There  was 
no  rosebud  curve  to  the  rather  wide  mouth  that 
showed  a  set  of  magnificent  white  teeth.  The 
brown  hair  wound  braid  on  braid  about  the  head 
was  proof  of  the  glory  of  Saint  Paul's  scriptural 
decree.  Not  that  Jerry  Swaim  really  noted  any 
of  these  features.  She  merely  saw  a  country  girl— 
a  not  offensive  native.  The  native's  comrade,  he 
with  the  big-laugh  fixtures,  was  short  and  stout, 
with  a  round  face  on  the  front  side  of  a  round  head, 
set  on  top  of  a  tight-built  body.  Grub  though  he 
was,  Jerry  involuntarily  smiled  with  him.  That 

66 


BETWEEN    EDENS 

far  the  fat  little  man  controlled  everybody.  But 
the  funny  littile  strut  in  his  gait  as  he  walked  was 
irresistible.  The  third  passenger,  the  grubbiest  of 
the  three  grubs,  was  a  nondescript  of  whose  pres 
ence  Jerry  was  not  even  aware  until  she  heard  his 
voice.  It  was  a  thin,  high,  unused  voice,  and  its 
pitch  wabbled  up  and  down. 

"Be  you  goin*  on  the  Sage  Bresh  train,  lady?" 

The  questioner  had  turned  back  after  the  coun 
try  girl  and  the  fat  man  had  passed  out. 

Jerry  looked  at  him  without  taking  his  question 
to  herself.  His  shoes,  draped  with  wrinkled-down 
hose,  were  very  much  worn.  His  overalls  flapping 
around  his  legs,  his  shirt  and  neck  and  face  and 
hair  and  hat,  were  all  of  one  complexion,  a  fuzzy, 
yellow  brown. 

"Be  you  goin*  on  this  train,  too?" 

It  was  a  humble,  kindly  voice,  and  the  scaly 
old  hand  holding  the  door  open  against  the  high 
prairie  wind  was  only  a  fisherman's  hand.  The 
deep-set  eyes  in  the  yellow-brown  old  face  were 
trained  to  read  the  river;  the  patient  mouth  set 
to  wait  for  the  catch  of  lines  and  nets. 

Jerry  had  never  in  her  life  spoken  to  such  a 
creature.  So  far  as  she  was  concerned,  he  did  not 
exist. 

"This  is  the  only  train  on  the  Sage  Bresh  to 
day,  lady.  The  reg'lar  train's  busted  through  a 
culbert  out  yander,"  the  high,  quavering  voice 

persisted. 

«7 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

A  sharp  tooting  from  the  engine  down  the  line 
emphasized  the  statement,  and  Jerry  saw  the 
grinning  red-faced  tick-tick  man  hastfly  wheeling 
mail-sacks  and  sundry  other  parcels  by  the  door. 
In  a  bewildered  way  she  rose  and  passed  out,  giving 
no  recognition  to  the  shabby  old  man  who  had 
been  thoughtful  of  her  ignorance. 

"  We  gotta  go  to  the  last  car  down  yander,  lady," 
the  old  man  squeaked  out,  as  he  started  down  the 
cinder-paved  way  with  a  bearlike,  shuffling,  side- 
wise  sort  of  gait. 

Jerry  followed  him  slowly  to  "the  last  car  down 
yander." 

A  plain  day  coach,  the  sixtieth  and  last  vertebra 
in  th4s  long  mechanical  spine,  was  already  crowded 
with  a  bunch  of  grubs,  none  of  whom  could  belong 
to  Jerry  Swaim's  sphere.  Moreover,  they  were  all 
tightly  packed  in  and  wedged  ^down  so  that  it  was 
impossible  to  detect  the  leaving  off  of  the  full-fare 
passenger  and  the  beginning  of  suit-cases,  old-style 
telescopes,  baskets,  bundles,  boxes,  half-fare  chil 
dren,  bags  of  fruit,  lunch-crates,  pieces  of  farming 
tools,  babes  in  arms,  groceries — everything  to  cab 
bages  and  kings.  Jerry  wondered  where  all  these 
things  came  from.  Every  object  in  that  car,  hu 
man  being  or  salt  pork,  crying  baby  or  kingbolt, 
was  a  thing  to  Jerry  Swaim.  And  all  of  them  were 
very  warm  and  nervously  tense,  as  if  the  hot  June 
wind  had  blown  them  all  inside,  that  the  hot 
June  sun,  through  the  closed  windo»ws,  might  stew 

68 


BETWEEN    EDENS 

them  stinkily;  or,  through  the  open  windows, 
grime  their  sweaty  faces  with  hot  dust  off  the  hot 
prairie.  There  was  only  one  vacant  seat  left.  It 
was  on  the  shady  side,  facing  the  rear  of  the  car, 
and  was  half  occupied  already  by  the  humble  grub 
of  the  squeaky  voice.  The  girl,  Thelma,  and  the 
fat  little  man  had  taken  the  seat  opposite  him. 
As  Jerry  entered  the  car  the  little  man  was  on  his 
feet,  bowing  and  strutting  and  insisting  that  a 
woman  with  a  babe  in  arms  should  exchange  seats 
with  him,  putting  her  on  the  cool  side,  while  he 
took  her  place  in  the  sun  across  the  aisle  from 
Thelma.  In  the  transfer  he  did  not  see  Jerry,  who 
was  looking  in  vain  for  an  opening  in  that  mass 
of  "human  various.'*  It  was  the  humble  grub 
who  saw  her  standing  there.  Evidently  his  little 
yellow-green  eyes  took  her  measure  at  a  glance, 
but  he  did  not  spread  out  his  effects  and  stare 
out  of  the  window  as  some  other  men  were  doing, 
nor  gather  himself  and  his  into  his  own  half  of  the 
seat  to  make  room  for  her  beside  him.  He  rose, 
and  in  a  shrill  little  quaver  he  bade  her  take  his 
place.  It  did  not  occur  to  Jerry  to  tell  him  that 
there  was  room  for  two,  as  she  saw  him  shuffle 
down  the  aisle  with  a  queer,  limping  hitch.  In  the 
same  impersonal  way  she  watched  him  through 
the  open  door,  sitting  on  the  rear  platform  during 
the  long  afternoon,  humpbacked  against  the  cin 
ders  and  dust  that  beat  upon  him,  swaying  with 
the  rocking  car,  jerked  along  over  a  sun-baked, 

69 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

treeless  prairie  at  the  tail  of  a  long  jerky  freight- 
train.  He  meant  nothing  to  this  dainty  city  prod 
uct;  his  kind  had  never  entered  her  world;  no 
more  had  the  red-faced,  tow-headed  young  mother, 
with  white  eyebrows  and  hat  knocked  rakishly 
aslant,  with  her  big,  restless,  bald-headed  baby 
rolling  over  her  in  waves,  sprawling  about  Thel- 
ma,  and  threatening  to  bump  its  head  off  as  it 
overflowed  all  the  narrow  space,  aimlessly  and 
persistently. 

But  if  Jerry  Swaim  felt  out  of  her  element  in 
this  company,  her  fellow-passengers  felt  much 
more  embarrassed  by  her  presence.  Thelma's  neat 
gingham  dress  became  limp  and  mussy  and  com 
mon.  The  tired  mother's  yellow  lawn  was  rum 
pled  into  a  dish-rag.  And  with  every  jerk  of  the 
train  she  lost  a  hair-pin  from  her  tow  hair  that  was 
already  stringing  down  in  long  wisps  on  her  neck. 
The  baby,  really  a  happy,  white,  blue-veined 
infant,  became  a  fussy  flushed  impossibility. 

All  this,  it  seemed,  just  because  of  the  presence 
of  a  faultlessly  dressed,  fair-faced  stranger  who 
awed  everybody  by  not  seeing  them,  but  whose 
very  daintiness  and  beauty  drew  them  hungrily  to 
her.  Nobody  could  be  in  Jerry  Swaim's  presence 
and  not  feel  the  spell  of  her  inherent  magnetism. 

The  laughter  and  complaints  of  the  passengers 
dulled  down  to  endurance.  Only  the  face  of  the 
short  man  wore  a  smile.  But  his  mouth  was 
made  with  that  kind  of  a  curve,  and  he  couldn't 

70 


BETWEEN    EDENS 

help  it.  Breathing  deeply  and  perspiring  health 
fully,  he  sat  against  the  heat  streaming  into  his 
side  of  the  car,  and  forgot  his  troubles  in  his  un 
breakable  good  nature.  For  a  long  time  he  and 
Thelma  had  talked  across  the  aisle  above  and 
through  the  train's  noises.  Their  talk  was  all  of 
Paul  and  Joe's  place,  and  the  crops;  of  how  glad 
Thelma  was  to  be  at  home  again  on  Paul's  ac 
count;  and  how  long  it  would  take  her  yet  if  the 
alfalfa  and  wheat  turned  out  well. 

Jerry  heard  it  all  without  knowing  it,  as  she 
looked  at  the  monotonous  landscape  without 
knowing  it.  And  then  the  dry  prairies  began  to 
deepen  to  a  richer  hue.  Yellow  wheat-fields  and 
low-growing  corn  and  stretches  of  alfalfa  broke 
into  the  high  plains  where  cattle  grazed.  And  then 
came  the  gleam  of  a  river,  sometimes  shallow  along 
sandy  levels,  sometimes  deep,  with  low  overhang 
ing  brush  on  either  side.  And  there  were  cotton- 
wood-trees  and  low  twisted  elms  and  scrubby 
locust  and  oak  saplings,  and  the  faint,  fresh  scent 
of  moisture  livening  the  air. 

The  train  jerked  itself  to  a  standstill,  thought 
better  of  it,  and  hunched  along  again  for  a  rod  or 
two,  then  jostled  itself  quiet  again. 

Jerry  was  very  drowsy  now,  but  she  was 
conscious  of  hearing  the  fat  man  calling  out, 
cheerfully: 

"Home  at  last,  Thelmy.  There's  Paul  waiting 
for  you.  Well,  good-by." 

71 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

And  of  Thelma's  "Good-by"  in  a  louder  tone 
than  was  necessary.  Of  more  strutting  and  bow 
ing  and  no  end  of  luggage  clearing  itself  away. 

Through  the  window  Jerry  caught  sight  of  a 
tall,  fair-haired  boy,  who  looked  like  Thelma,  ex 
cept  that  in  his  white  face  was  the  pathos  of  the 
life-cripple.  She  saw  Thelma  kiss  him,  and  then 
the  two  started  down  the  sunny,  cindery  side 
track  together.  In  the  distance,  close  to  the  river, 
there  was  a  small  plain  house  under  a  big  cotton- 
wood-tree.  The  glimpse  of  red  about  a  little 
porch  meant  that  the  crimson  ramblers  were  in 
bloom  there.  Oh,  the  roses  of  "Eden,"  and  the 
cool  rose-arbor!  Jerry  must  have  dreamed  then, 
for  "Eden'*  was  about  her  again.  Through  it  the 
limping  grub  came  humbly  to  claim  his  sundry 
own  from  behind  and  under  the  seat.  Even  in 
"Eden"  she  thought  how  much  like  a  clumsy 
bear  his  gait  was.  And  when  the  little  man  called 
him  "Teddy"  she  knew  he  was  not  a  fisherman 
sort  of  creature,  but  a  real  bear  in  yellow-brown 
overalls,  and  that  the  general  fuzziness  of  his  make 
up  was  fur,  and  that  his  stubby,  scaly  hands  were 
claws.  He  dropped  off  somewhere  when  the 
freight  took  a  siding  very  near  the  river.  It  was 
the  Sage  Brush,  but  it  ran  through  the  "Eden" 
grounds  and  Uncle  Cornie  was  throwing  his  discus 
beside  it.  The  rose-arbor  was  just  across  the  aisle. 
The  little  fat  man  was  sitting  in  its  doorway,  with 
a  new  moon  of  a  smile  on  the  smooth  side  of  his 

72 


BETWEEN    EDENS 

round  head  where  his  face  was,  a  half-quizzical, 
half-sympathetic  smile  with  no  guile  in  it.  Jerry 
really  liked  him  for  that  kind  of  a  smile.  It  be 
longed  to  him.  The  rose-arbor  was  very  warm, 
for  the  man  was  sweating  more  copiously  than 
ever.  .  .  .  Uncle  Cornie  was  gone.  The  limping 
Teddy  Bear  was  gone.  ...  It  was  very,  very  hot 
and  sunny  in  "Eden."  The  big  maples  and  cool 
lilacs  were  gone.  .  .  .  "Eden"  was  gone.  In  its 
stead  came  the  art  exhibit  in  the  cool  gallery  in 
the  city.  And  that  yellow-gray  desert  landscape 
with  the  flaming  afterglow  and  purple  mists.  The 
flames  seemed  almost  real,  and  the  yellow  gray 
almost  real,  and  the  art-gallery  was  getting 
warmer  as  "Eden"  had  done.  It  was  positively 
hot.  .  .  .  And  then  the  Sage  Brush  freight  was 
laboring  slowly  and  painfully  through  a  desert 
with  clack  and  roar  and  cloud  of  cindery  dust. 
.  .  .  Jerry  sat  up,  wide  awake,  and  looked  up  at 
the  fat  stranger  who  was  looking  at  her,  the  smile 
on  the  inside  of  his  face,  as  it  were,  showing  only 
in  the  eyes. 

Outside,  the  river  was  gone,  taking  with  it  all 
the  cool-breathing  alfalfa,  and  elm  and  cotton  wood 
shade,  and  leaving  in  their  stead  only  bare  earth- 
ridges  and  low  dunes.  As  far  as  Jerry  could  see, 
there  was  nothing  but  a  hot  yellow  plain,  wrinkled 
here  and  there  in  great  barren  folds,  with  wave 
and  crest  and  hollow  of  wind-shifted  sand  crawling 

endlessly  back  and  forth  along  the  face  of  the 
a  73 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

landscape.  A  few  spiny  green  shrubs  struggled 
through  at  intervals,  but  their  presence  only  in 
tensified  the  barrenness  about  them. 

The  train  was  entering  a  deep  wrinkle  not  un 
like  that  cut  beyond  the  third  crossing  of  the 
Winnowoc.  Jerry  remembered  the  day  she  had 
watched  that  other  train  from  the  bluff  road,  and 
her  exultation  in  pounding  her  big  car  up  the 
steep  way  instead  of  crawling  through,  as  Eugene 
was  doing.  Later  she  had  found  out  that  Eugene 
really  preferred  that  to  the  more  daring  climb. 
Jerry  involuntarily  gripped  the  car  seat  with  a  sub 
conscious  longing  to  get  out  and  drive  over  the 
whole  thing.  Across  the  aisle,  the  smile  on  the 
fat  man's  face  was  coming  outside  as  he  watched 
the  stranger  passenger. 

They  were  deep  in  now — a  valley-like  thing  that 
was  hotter  than  any  other  inch  of  the  whole  way 
they  had  come.  On  either  side  tall  slabs  of  tim 
ber,  planted  upright,  closed  in  the  right  of  way. 
They  were  barely  moving  through  this  narrow 
lane.  The  engine  was  gasping  for  breath,  and  the 
cars  dragged  themselves  after  it  by  inches.  Then 
all  came  to  a  dead  stop. 

"Everybody  turn  out  and  help,"  somebody  in 
uniformed  authority  called  through  the  car  door, 
and  all  the  men  passengers  stirred  to  action. 

"The  dickens!"  the  short  fat  man  exclaimed  to 
everybody.  "Stuck  in  a  sand-drift  in  that  danged 
blowout.  That's  what  comes  of  letting  this  wind 

74 


BETWEEN    EDENS 

go  all  day.  I  told  'em  up  at  the  junction  to  stop 
it,  but  they  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  Now  we've 
got  to  soar  out  of  here  and  shovel  for  our  lives." 

When  he  laughed  everybody  else  had  to  laugh, 
too,  and  it  was  a  really  good-natured  company 
of  men  that  piled  down  from  the  train  to  help  the 
cause  of  railway  transportation. 

The  fat  man  had  been  last  to  leave  the  car. 

"Let  me  close  all  these  windows,"  he  urged, 
strutting  from  seat  to  seat.  "It  '11  be  hot  with  'em 
shut,  but  you'll  be  buried  in  sand  in  here  if  we 
leave  'em  open,  and  we  men  don't  want  to  dig  you 
and  the  engine  all  out  in  one  day.  We  mightn't 
find  all  the  children,  you  know,  and  leave  some 
of  'em  in  here  covered  up.  He,  he!  Haw!"  He 
struggled  with  the  last  windows  until  they  were 
sealed  down,  then  turned  away  to  lend  his  aid 
in  a  good  cause. 

The  tow-headed  woman  and  her  little  perpetual- 
motion  baby,  who  had  been  sleeping  wearily  for  a 
few  miles,  roused  at  the  jolly  man's  loud  laugh. 

"It's  the  blowout,"  the  mother  said,  as  Jerry 
looked  at  her  for  the  first  time.  "Them  timbers  is 
driv  in  to  keep  out  all  that  sand.  See  how  it's 
heaped  up  ag'in'  'em  on  the  outside.  On  awfully 
windy  days  it  blows  over  and  fills  the  tracks  and 
stops  the  train,  and  then  the  men  all  get  out  and 
help  to  shovel  it  off.  Gee  whiz!  but  it's  hot  in 
here!  We'd  be  just  smothered  in  sand  if  we  left 
the  windows  open,  though.  There!  There!" 

75 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

The  last  to  the  big  baby,  stirring  uneasily,  whom 
the  mother  patted  off  to  slumber  again. 

Jerry  walked  to  the  rear  door  and  looked  out 
at  the  narrow  space  walled  in  by  palisades,  and 
at  glimpses  of  sand  waves  on  either  side  of  the 
road  beyond  them;  at  the  little  hot-looking  green 
shrubs  clinging  for  life  to  their  shifting  depths, 
and  the  heat-quivering  air  visible  above  them. 
In  all  her  life  she  had  never  felt  so  uncomfortable 
as  now;  never  realized  what  it  means  to  endure 
physical  misery.  She  had  seen  the  habitable 
globe  features — lake-shore,  and  seaside,  and  moun 
tain  resorts;  big  navigable  rivers;  big  forests; 
narrow  little  valleys;  sheer  cliffs  and  wonderful 
waterfalls.  She  didn't  know  that  the  world  held 
such  a  place  as  this  that  anybody  but  a  Hottentot 
was  supposed  to  inhabit.  Through  a  long  hour 
and  a  half  the  train  was  held  back  by  the  sand 
of  what  Jerry  heard  was  a  "blowout."  She 
did  not  know  nor  care  what  the  term  meant. 
She  wanted  to  get  out  of  it  and  go  on,  and 
what  Jerry  Swaim  wanted  she  had  always  had 
the  right  to  have. 

The  sun  was  getting  low  in  the  west  when  the 
local  freight  labored  up  the  Sage  Brush  Valley  to 
its  terminal  in  the  yards  at  New  Eden.  All  of  the 
passengers  except  Jerry  tumbled  out,  much  as 
tired  boys  rush  from  the  church  door  after  a  long 
doctrinal  sermon.  The  car  was  stopped  at  the 
freight-station,  some  distance  down  the  line  from 

76 


BETWEEN    EDENS 

the  passenger-station,  which  was  itself  a  long  way 
out  from  New  Eden,  after  the  manner  of  Western 
small  towns.  The  middle  '80's,  when  railroad 
branch  lines  were  building,  found  road  directors 
and  town  councils  falling  out  over  technicalities, 
with  the  result  that  the  railroad  seldom  secured 
the  ground  it  wanted  and  the  town  was  seldom 
given  a  convenient  station  site. 

The  buses  filled  rapidly,  and  the  mail  and  ex 
press  wagons  were  rattling  off  ahead  of  buses 
and  foot  passengers,  and  still  the  young  stranger 
sat  in  the  car.  A  sudden  sense  of  loneliness  had 
enveloped  her  like  a  cloud.  She  was  not  a  novice 
abroad.  She  had  gone  to  strange  towns  alone 
before.  She  knew  all  the  regulations  of  hotel 
service.  She  knew  why  she  had  come  here  and 
what  she  had  to  do,  and  she  had  abundant  means 
for  all  her  needs.  But  with  all  these  points  in  her 
favor  a  helplessness  swept  over  her,  and  the  "  what 
next"  for  the  moment  perplexed  her.  The  engine 
was  getting  restless  again.  However  long  it  may 
require  a  local  freight  to  get  from  one  given  point 
to  another,  the  engine,  like  an  ill-broken  colt,  will 
keep  stepping  up  or  pulling  back  through  every 
halt  of  the  train.  Jerry  sat  inside,  watching  the 
last  bus,  loaded  and  hung-on-to,  swinging  off 
down  the  dusty  road  toward  the  town,  a  full  half- 
mile  across  the  prairie  from  the  station.  Life  was 
getting  a  trifle  too  interesting  in  this  foreign  clime, 
and  when  the  short  man  appeared  in  the  doorway, 

77 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

even  the  full-moon  face  and  half -moon  smile,  the 
profound  bow  and  comical  strut,  could  not  out 
weigh  the  genuine  comfort  his  presence  seemed  to 
bring. 

"Pardon  me,  Miss — Miss — " 

"Miss  Swaim,"  Jerry  informed  him,  sure  of  her 
self  and  unafraid  again. 

"Oh,  Miss  Swaim!  My  name  is  Ponk — Junius 
Brutus  Ponk.  Pardon  again  if  I  seem  to  intrude. 
This  is  the  Sage  Brush  terminal.  Excuse  me  if  I 
say  thank  the  Lord  for  the  end  of  this  day's  jour 
ney  !  The  buses  are  all  gone.  May  I  take  you  to 
your  destination  here  in  my  little  gadabout?  You 
want  to  stop  somewhere  in  New  Eden  overnight, 
anyhow." 

"Thank  you  very  much." 

Jerry  looked  at  him  gratefully,  even  if  he  was 
only  one  of  the  bunch  of  grubs  she  had  been 
forced  to  ride  with  all  this  long  afternoon,  she  who 
had  once  repudiated  the  Winnowoc  train  and  all 
trains  without  Pullman  accommodations.  "The 
smile  on  her  face  was  mightily  winsome,"  Ponk 
declared  afterward,  "and  just  took  all  my  ram 
parts  and  citadels  and  moats  and  drawbridges  at 
one  fell  swoop." 

He  gathered  up  her  bags  and  helped  her  off  the 
car  pompously,  saying: 

"Here  she  is,  Miss  Swaim.  Step  right  in." 
And  then  with  a  flourish  of  arms  he  had  Jerry 
and  her  belongings  stored  inside  a  shiny  gray 

78 


BETWEEN    EDENS 

runabout  and  was  off  down  the  grassy  road  with 
a  dash. 

"Where  shall  I  take  you  to,  Miss  Swaim?"  he 
inquired,  when  the  little  car  had  glided  gracefully 
around  the  lumbering  buses  and  rattling  wagons. 

"To  the  best  hotel,  please,"  Jerry  replied.  "Do 
you  know  which  one  that  is?" 

"  Yes'm.  There  isn't  but  one.  The  Commercial 
Hotel  and  Gurrage.  I'm  the  proprietor,  so  I 
know."  The  smile  that  broke  around  the  face  of 
the  speaker  was  too  good-natured  to  make  his 
words  seem  presumptuous. 

Jerry  smiled,  too,  finding  herself  in  the  grasp  of 
a  strange  and  complete  confidence  in  the  pompous 
little  unknown  chauffeur. 

"Do  you  know  an  old  gentleman  here  named 
York  Macpherson,  a  Mortgage  Company  man?" 
she  asked,  looking  at  him  directly  for  the  first 
time. 

Ponk  seemed  to  gulp  down  a  smile  before  he 
replied:  "Ye-es,  I  do  know  York  very  well.  He's 
prob'bly  older  than  he  looks.  His  office  is  right 
across  the  street  from  the  Commercial  Hotel  and 
Gurrage." 

Afterward  he  declared:  "From  the  minute  that 
girl  turned  her  eyes  full  on  me  and  I  saw  how 
blue  them  orbs  were,  I  begun  to  wish  I  had  a  gold 
button  instead  of  a  bone  one  in  the  back  of  my 
collar.  I  knew  she  could  see  that  cheap  bone  thing 
right  through  my  neck  and  I  was  willing  right 

79 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

then  to  lay  down  and  play  dead  if  she  wanted  me 
to,  and  I'm  never  going  to  recover,  never." 

"Would  you  do — me  a  favor?"  Jerry  asked, 
hesitatingly. 

Asking  favors  was  a  new  line  for  her  and  she 
followed  it  prettily. 

"Wouldn't  I!"  Mr.  Ponk  exclaimed.  "Try 
me." 

"Even  his  voice  has  a  strut  in  it,"  Jerry  thought. 
Aloud  she  said:  "I  have  business  with  this  old 
gentleman  and  I  would  be  much  obliged  if  you 
would  tell  him  that  Miss  Geraldine  Swaim  is  in  the 
city  and  would  like  to  meet  him." 

"Why,  I'll  soar  right  over  there  as  soon  as  we 
get  to  the  hotel  and  gurrage." 

Junius  Brutus  Ponk  looked  slyly  at  the  face  of 
his  companion  as  he  spoke.  What  he  was  thinking 
just  then  it  would  have  been  hard  to  guess.  With 
a  flourish  and  curve  that  were  wholly  Ponkish 
the  fat  little  man  swung  the  gray  car  up  to  the 
brick-paved  porch  of  the  "Commercial  Hotel  and 
Gurrage." 

"Why,  there's  York  now,  reading  his  mail!  I'll 
go  right  over  and  tell  him,"  Mr.  Ponk  declared. 
"Here,  George,  tell  Georgette  to  give  Miss  Swaim 
number  seven." 

George  assisted  Miss  Swaim  to  the  hotel  register 
and  Georgette  led  her  to  room  No.  7.  Georgette 
wanted  to  linger  a  minute,  for  this  guest  was  so 
unlike  the  usual  commercial-traveler  kind  of  ladies 

80 


BETWEEN    EDENS 

who  sold  books,  or  canvassed  for  extracts,  or  took 
orders  for  crayon  portraits  enlarged  from  little 
photographs;  but  Miss  Swaim's  manner  gave  no 
excuse  for  lingering.  Alone,  Jerry  closed  her  door 
and  turned,  with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  to  face  her 
surroundings.  The  room  was  clean  and  cool,  with 
a  big  window  overhanging  the  street.  Jerry  sat 
down  before  it,  realizing  how  weary  the  long  jour 
ney  had  made  her.  Across  the  street,  the  sign  of 
the  Macpherson  Mortgage  Company  in  big  gold 
letters  hung  above  a  plate-glass  window.  Mr. 
Ponk,  who  had  just  "soared"  across,  was  sitting 
in  his  car  before  it.  Jerry  saw  a  man  inside  at  a 
desk  very  much  like  Uncle  Cornie's  in  the  Phila 
delphia  banking-house  where  Eugene  Wellington 
was  busy  now  helping  Aunt  Jerry  to  settle  things. 
This  man  was  reading  letters  when  the  Ponk  car 
tooted  before  the  big  window.  He  waved  a  hand 
to  the  tooter,  then  put  his  letters  away  and  came 
leisurely  outside.  Jerry  saw  a  tall,  finely  propor 
tioned  man,  the  set  of  whose  clothes  had  a  city 
air,  and  there  was  something  in  his  whole  manner 
that  would  have  distinguished  him  from  every 
other  man  in  New  Eden. 

The  fat  little  man  talked  earnestly,  with  a 
flourish  of  the  hand  now  and  then  toward  the 
room  where  Jerry  sat  watching  the  two.  York 
Macpherson  rested  one  foot  on  the  running-board, 
and  leaned  his  arms  on  the  side  of  the  car,  listen 
ing  intently  to  what  Mr.  Ponk  was  saying. 

81 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"So  that  is  this  York  Macpherson  who  was 
never  responsible  for  my  estate  not  making  any 
returns.  And  I  called  him  an  old  man.  The  hotel 
proprietor  must  be  telling  him  that  now."  Jerry 
laughed  as  she  saw  the  two  men  chuckling  together. 
"Well,  I  hope  the  pompous  little  fellow  tells  him 
Fm  an  old  woman.  It  would  even  things  up 
wonderfully." 

Ten  minutes  later  Jerry  was  shaking  hands  with 
York  Macpherson  and  promising  him  to  go  to  his 
home  and  meet  his  sister  as  soon  as  she  had 
cleared  her  eyes  of  dust  sufficiently  to  see  anybody. 

It  must  have  been  the  dust  in  her  eyes,  Jerry 
thought,  that  made  York  Macpherson  appear  so 
unlike  the  benevolent,  inefficient  old  gentleman 
she  had  pictured  to  herself.  The  hotel  parlor  was 
in  twilight  shadows,  which  helped  a  little  to  con 
ceal  the  surprise  of  these  two  when  they  met 
there.  Jerry  knew  what  she  had  been  anticipating. 
Whether  York  Macpherson  knew  or  not,  he  was 
clearly  not  expecting  what  he  found  in  the  hotel 
parlor. 

"I'll  soar  down  to  your  shack  with  the  lady  as 
soon  as  she  has  had  her  supper  and  got  herself 
rightly  in  hand,"  Ponk  declared  to  York  when  he 
came  into  the  hotel  office.  "You  see,  we  got  stuck 
in  that  danged,  infernal  blowout,  and  it  was  as 
hard  on  the  womenkind  who  had  to  sit  inside  and 
swelter  as  on  us  men  who  nobly  dug.  'Specially 

this  Miss  Swaim.     She  must  have  'wept  to  see 

82 


BETWEEN    EDENS 

such  quantities  of  sand/  same  as  them  oysters 
and  walruses  and  carpenters.  We'll  be  along  by 
and  by,  though.  Have  a  cigar.  What  do  you  make 
of  her,  anyhow,  York?" 

"I  don't  make  anything.  I  leave  that  job  to 
you,"  York  replied,  with  a  smile,  as  he  turned 
abruptly  and  left  the  hotel. 

"Unless  you  see  eight  per  cent,  interest  coming 
your  way,  I  see.  There  might  be  a  bigger  interest 
in  this  investment  than  any  you  ever  made  in 
your  life,"  Ponk  called  after  him. 

But  York  only  waved  off  the  words  without 
looking  back.  Outside,  the  sunset's  splendor  was 
filling  the  western  sky — the  same  old  prairie  sun 
set  that  he  had  seen  many  a  time  in  his  years  in 
Kansas.  And  yet,  on  this  evening  it  did  not  seem 
quite  the  same;  nor  were  the  sunsets,  New  Eden, 
and  the  Sage  Brush  Valley  from  this  evening 
ever  quite  as  they  had  been  before,  to  York 
Macpherson. 


NEW  EDEN  S  PROBLEM 

BECAUSE  of  a  broken  "culbert"  out  toward 
"S'liny"  the  afternoon  train  on  the  Sage 
Brush  branch  was  annulled  for  the  day.  Because 
of  this  annulment  the  mail  for  the  Sage  Brush 
Valley  was  brought  up  on  the  local  freight,  which 
is  always  behind  time  when  it  reaches  its  terminal, 
which  accounted  for  the  late  delivery  of  the  mail 
at  the  New  Eden  post-office,  which  made  York 
Macpherson's  dinner  late  because  of  a  big  batch 
of  letters  to  be  read,  and  an  important  business 
call  at  the  Commercial  Hotel  following  the  read 
ing  and  the  delivery  of  Mr.  Ponk's  message. 

Purple  shadows  were  beginning  to  fold  down 
upon  the  landscape,  while  overhead  the  sky  was 
still  heliotrope  and  gold,  but  York  Macpherson, 
walking  slowly  homeward,  saw  neither  the  shadows 
nor  the  glory  that  overhung  them.  It  was  evident 
to  his  sister  Laura,  who  was  waiting  for  him  in 
the  honeysuckle  corner  of  the  big  front  porch,  that 
his  mind  was  burdened  with  something  unusual 
to-night. 

84 


NEW    EDEN'S    PROBLEM 

York  Macpherson  was  a  "leading  citizen"  type 
of  the  Middle  West.  Wholesome,  ruggedly  hand 
some,  prosperous,  shrewd  to  read  men's  minds, 
quick  to  meet  their  needs,  full  of  faith  in  the 
promise  of  the  Western  prairies,  with  the  sort  of 
culture  no  hardship  of  the  plains  could  ever  over 
come — that  was  York.  Although  he  was  on  the 
front  edge  of  middle  life  in  years,  with  a  few  gray 
streaks  in  his  wavy  brown  hair,  he  had  the  young- 
looking  face,  the  alert  action,  and  vigorous  at 
mosphere  of  a  young-hearted  man  just  entered 
into  his  full  heritage  of  manhood. 

"The  train  was  delayed  down  the  river  on  ac 
count  of  sand  drifted  over  the  track  by  the  south 
wind,  and  that  made  the  mail  late,"  York  ex 
plained,  when  he  reached  the  porch.  "I'll  bet  you 
have  had  the  house  shut  up  tight  as  wax  and  have 
gone  about  all  day  with  a  dust-cloth  in  your  hand. 
Given  a  south  wind  and  Laura  Macpherson,  and 
you  have  a  home  industry  in  no  time.  Let's 
hurry  up  the  dinner"  (it  was  always  dinner  to 
the  Macphersons  and  supper  to  the  remainder  of 
New  Eden)  "and  get  outside  again  as  soon  as 
possible.  I  can't  think  in  shut-up  rooms." 

"When  there  is  a  south  wind  it  makes  little 
difference  whether  or  not  one  does  any  thinking. 
I  postpone  that  job  to  the  cool  of  the  evening," 
Laura  Macpherson  declared,  as  she  led  the  way 
to  the  dining-room. 

When  the  two  came  outside  again  the  air  off  the 

85 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

prairie  was  delicious,  and  there  was  promise  of 
restfulness  later  in  the  black  silence  of  the  June 
night  that  made  them  forget  the  nervous  strain 
of  the  windy  day.  The  Macphersons  had  no 
problems  tJhat  they  could  not  talk  over  in  the 
shadowy  stillness  of  that  roomy  porch  on  summer 
evenings. 

York  had  been  a  bachelor  boarder  at  the  "  Com 
mercial  Hotel  and  Garage"  for  some  years  before 
the  coming  of  his  sister  Laura,  who  was  at  once 
his  housekeeper,  companion,  and  counselor.  When 
he  first  went  to  the  hotel  New  Eden  was  in  its 
infancy,  and  the  raw  beginnings  of  things  were 
especially  underdone  in  this  two-dollars-a-day, 
one-towel-a-week  establishment.  It  was  through 
York  that  Junius  Brutus  Ponk  had  given  up  an 
unprofitable  real-estate  business  to  become  pro 
prietor  of  the  Commercial  Hotel — "and  Gurrage" 
was  added  later  with  the  advent  of  automobiles, 
the  "Gurrage"  part  being  a  really  creditably 
equipped  livery  for  public  service.  By  this  change 
of  occupation  for  Ponk,  the  Macpherson  Mortgage 
Company  accomplished  several  things.  It  got  rid 
of  an  inefficient  competitor  whose  very  inefficiency 
would  have  made  him  a  more  disagreeable  enemy 
than  a  successful  man  would  have  been.  Further, 
it  placed  the  ambitious  little  man  where  his  tal 
ents  could  flourish  (flourish  is  the  right  word  for 
J.  B.  Ponk),  and  it  put  into  the  growing  little  town 
of  New  Eden  a  hotel  with  city  comforts  that 

86 


NEW    EDEN'S    PROBLEM 

brought  business  to  the  town  and  added  mightily 
to  its  reputation  and  respectability. 

York  Macpherson's  business  had  grown  with 
the  town  he  had  helped  to  build.  Long  before 
other  towns  in  this  part  of  Kansas  had  dreamed 
it  possible  for  them,  New  Eden  was  lighted  with 
electricity.  Water-works  and  a  sewer  system  fore 
ran  cement  sidewalks  and  a  mile  of  paving,  not 
including  the  square  around  the  court-house.  And 
before  any  of  these  had  come  the  big  stone  school- 
house  on  the  high  ridge  overlooking  the  Sage 
Brush  Valley  for  miles.  That  also  was  York  Mac 
pherson's  task,  which  he  had  carried  out  almost 
single-handed,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  bring 
ing  desirable  taxpaying  residents  to  live  in  New 
Eden  who  would  never  have  come  but  for  the 
school  advantages.  Then  Junius  Brutus  Ponk, 
who  had  learned  to  couple  with  York,  got  himself 
elected  to  the  board  of  education  and  began  to 
pay  higher  salaries  to  teachers  than  was  paid  by  any 
other  town  in  the  whole  Sage  Brush  Valley;  to  the 
end  that  better  schools  were  housed  in  that  fine 
school-building,  and  a  finer  class  of  young  citizens 
began  to  put  the  good  name  of  New  Eden  above 
everything  else.  The  hoodlum  element  was  there, 
of  course,  but  it  was  not  the  leading  element.  Boys 
stuck  to  the  high-school  faithfully  and  followed  it 
up  with  a  college  course,  even  though  a  large  per 
cent,  of  them  worked  for  every  dollar  that  the 
course  cost  them.  Girls  went  to  college,  too,  until 

87 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

it  became  a  rare  thing  to  find  a  teacher  in  the 
whole  valley  who  had  not  a  diploma  from  some 
institution  of  higher  learning. 

It  was  only  recently  that  Laura  Macpherson 
had  come  to  New  Eden  to  make  her  home  with  her 
brother.  An  accident  a  few  years  before  had 
shortened  one  limb,  making  her  limp  as  she  walked. 
She  was  some  years  older  than  York,  with  a  face 
as  young  and  very  much  like  her  brother's;  a 
comely,  companionable  sort  of  woman,  popular 
alike  with  men  and  women,  young  folks  and 
children. 

Some  time  before  her  coming  York  had  bought 
the  best  building-site  in  New  Eden,  a  wooded 
knoll  inside  the  corporation  limits,  the  only  natural 
woodland  in  the  vicinity,  that  stood  directly  across 
the  far  end  of  Broad  Avenue,  the  main  business 
street,  whose  mile  of  paving  ended  in  York's 
driveway.  In  one  direction,  this  site  commanded 
a  view  far  down  Sage  Brush  Valley;  in  the  other, 
it  overlooked  the  best  residence  and  business  por 
tion  of  New  Eden.  Here  York  had,  as  he  put  it, 
"built  a  porch,  at  the  rear  of  which  a  few  rooms 
were  attached."  The  main  glory  of  the  place, 
however,  was  the  big  porch. 

York  had  named  their  home  "Castle  Cluny," 
and  his  big  farm  joining  it  just  outside  the  town 
limits  "Kingussie,"  after  some  old  Macpherson- 
clan  memories.  There  were  no  millionaires  in  the 
Sage  Brush  Valley,  and  this  home  was  far  and 

88 


NEW    EDEN'S    [PROBLEM 

away  the  finest,  as  well  as  the  most  popular,  home 
in  a  community  where  thrift  and  neatness 
abounded  in  the  homes,  and  elegance  was  very 
much  lacking,  as  was  to  be  expected  in  a  young 
town  on  the  far  edge  of  the  Middle  West. 

"Joe  Thomson  came  in  to-day  to  see  me  about 
putting  a  mortgage  on  his  claim  this  side  of  the 
big  blowout.  Looks  like  a  losing  game  for  Joe. 
His  land  is  about  one-third  sand  now,"  York 
commented,  thoughtfully,  as  he  settled  himself 
comfortably  in  his  big  porch  chair. 

"Well,  why  not  let  the  sand  have  its  own  third* 
while  he  uses  the  other  two-thirds  himself?  They 
ought  to  keep  him  busy,"  Laura  suggested. 

The  country  around  New  Eden  was  still  new 
to  her.  Although  she  overflowed  the  town  with 
her  sunny  presence,  her  lameness  had  kept  her 
nearer  to  "Castle  Cluny"  than  her  brother  had 
comprehended.  She  did  not  understand  the  laws, 
nor  lawlessness,  of  what  her  brother  called  the 
"blowout,"  nor  had  she  ever  seen  the  desolation 
that  marked  its  broadening  path. 

"A  blowout  is  never  satisfied  until  it  has  swal 
lowed  all  the  land  in  the  landscape,"  York  ex 
plained.  "I  remember  a  few  years  ago  there  was 
just  a  sandy  outcrop  along  a  little  draw  below 
Joe's  claim,  the  line  of  some  prehistoric  river-bed, 
I  suppose.  That  was  the  beginning  of  the  thing 
Joe  is  fighting  to-day.  Something  started  the 
sand  to  drifting.  It  increased  as  the  wind  blew 

7  89 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

away  the  soil;  the  more  wind,  the  more  sand; 
the  more  sand,  the  more  wind.  They  worked  to 
gether  until  what  had  been  a  narrow  belt  spread 
enormously,  gradually  overlapping  Joe's  claim, 
making  acres  of  waste  ground.  I  hate  to  see  Joe 
shoulder  a  mortgage  to  try  to  drive  back  that 
monstrous  thing.  But  Joe  is  one  of  those  big, 
self-contained  fellows  who  takes  the  bit  in  his 
teeth  and  goes  his  own  gait  in  spite  of  all  the 
danger  signals  you  wigwag  at  him." 

"Why  do  you  loan  him  money  if  you  know  he 
can't  succeed?"  Laura  inquired. 

"Making  farm  loans  is  the  business  of  the  Mac- 
pherson  Mortgage  Company.  That's  how  we 
maintain  our  meager  existence,"  York  replied, 
teasingly.  "Joe  wants  to  fight  back  the  blowout 
creeping  over  his  south  border  farther  and  farther 
each  year.  Our  company  gets  its  commission  while 
he  fights.  See?" 

"Oh,  you  grasping  loan  shark!  If  I  didn't  know 
how  easy  it  is  for  you  to  lie  I'd  disown  you," 
Laura  declared,  flinging  a  chair  pillow  at  her 
brother,  who  was  chuckling  at  her  earnestness. 

But  York  was  serious  himself  in  the  next  minute. 

"Our  company  doesn't  want  the  prairie;  it 
wants  prosperity.  A  foreclosed  mortgage  is  bad 
business.  It  brings  us  responsibility  and  ill-will. 
What  we  want  is  good- will  and  interest  money. 
I  have  put  the  thing  up  to  Joe  just  as  it  is.  Man 
is  a  free  agent  to  choose  or  let  alone.  I  have  a 

90 


bigger  problem  than  Joe  to  handle  now.  I  had  a 
letter  this  evening  from  Miss  Geraldine  Swaim,  of 
Philadelphia.  Do  you  remember  her,  Laura?  She 
used  to  come  up  to  Winnowoc  when  she  was  a 
little  girl." 

"  I  remember  little  Jerry  Swaim,  Jim  and  Lesa's 
only  child,"  York's  sister  declared.  "She  was 
considerably  younger  than  I.  I  pushed  her  in 
her  baby-cab  when  I  wasn't  very  big  myself. 
When  I  went  away  to  college  she  was  a  little  roly- 
poly  beauty  of  ten  or  eleven,  maybe.  Wasn't  she 
named  for  her  father's  rich  sister,  Mrs.  Darby? 
I  never  knew  that  Mrs.  Darby's  name  was 
Geraldine." 

"It  wasn't;  it  was  Jerusha;  and  Jim's  name  was 
Jeremiah;  and  Lesa's  was  plain  Melissa,"  York 
explained.  "But  Lesa  changed  all  of  their  names 
to  make  them  sound  more  romantic.  Romance 
was  Lesa's  strong  suit.  She  called  her  daughter 
'Jerry,'  to  please  Mrs.  Darby,  but  the  child 
was  christened  Geraldine — never  Jerusha.  Lesa 
wouldn't  stand  for  that." 

"And  now  what  does  this  Geraldine  want  from 
my  respected  brother?"  Laura  inquired,  leaning 
back  on  the  cushions  of  her  chair  to  listen. 

York's  face  was  hidden  by  the  darker  shadows 
of  the  porch,  but  his  sister  knew  by  his  grave  tone, 
when  he  spoke  again,  that  something  deeper  than 
a  business  transaction  lay  back  of  this  message 
from  Philadelphia. 

91 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"It's  an  old  story,  Laura.  The  story  of  parents 
rearing  a  child  in  luxury  and  then  dying  poor  and 
leaving  this  child  unprovided  for  and  unfitted  to 
provide  for  herself.  Jim  Swaim  was  as  clear 
headed  as  his  wife  was  soft-hearted  and  idealizing. 
Every  angle  of  his  was  a  right  angle,  even  if  he 
did  grow  a  bit  tight-fisted  sometimes  for  his  fam 
ily's  sake.  But  a  leech  of  a  fellow,  a  sort  of  rela 
tive  by  marriage,  got  his  claws  into  Jim  some  way, 
and  in  the  end  got  him,  root  and  branch.  Then 
Lesa  contracted  pneumonia  and  died  after  a  short 
illness.  And  just  when  Jim  was  most  needed  to 
hold  up  his  business  interests  and  tide  things  over, 
as  well  as  look  after  his  daughter,  they  found  him 
dead  in  his  office  one  morning.  Heart  failure,  the 
doctors  said,  the  kind  that  gets  a  brain-fagged 
business  man.  The  estate  has  been  in  litigation 
for  two  years.  Now  it  is  settled,  and  all  that  is 
left  for  Geraldine  is  a  claim  her  father  held  out 
here  in  the  Sage  Brush  Valley.  She  thinks  she  is 
going  to  live  on  that.  She  came  in  on  the  after 
noon  train  and  is  stopping  at  the  Commercial 
Hotel.  I  called  to  see  her  a  minute  on  my  way 
home.  That  was  why  I  ate  a  cold  dinner  this 
evening.  I  asked  her  to  come  here  at  once,  but 
she  refused.  Some  one  from  the  hotel  will  bring 
her  over  later.  That  means  Ponk,  of  course.  He's 
the  whole  Commercial  Hotel  'and  Gurrage/  We 
must  have  her  here  to  stay  with  us  awhile,  of 
course." 

92 


NEW    EDEN'S    PROBLEM 

"York  Macpherson!"  his  sister  fairly  gasped. 
"Coming  to  call  this  evening!  Will  stay  with  us 
awhile,  of  course.  All  right.  I'm  willing  she  should 
stay  with  us  awhile,  but  how  can  she  live  on  a 
Sage  Brush  claim?  Why  doesn't  her  rich  aunt 
Darby  provide  for  her?  What  does  she  look  like?" 

"I  don't  know,"  York  drawled,  provokingly. 
Then  he  added:  "Mrs.  Darby  also  writes,  saying 
that  she  hopes  we  will  look  after  Jerry  while  she 
is  here,  but  that  she  herself  can  do  nothing  for  her 
niece,  because  a  relative  of  her  dear  deceased 
husband,  an  artist  of  merit  but  no  means,  is  de 
pendent  on  her,  and  she  owes  it  to  her  dear 
deceased's  memory  to  look  after  this  young  man. 
I've  a  notion  that  there  is  something  back  of  both 
letters,  but  I  haven't  had  time  to  read  behind  the 
lines  yet." 

"Turns  out  her  own  flesh  and  blood,  a  girl,  too, 
to  shift  for  herself,  and  coddles  this  man,  this 
artist  thing,  for  her  dear  deceased's  sake.  What 
do  you  think  of  that?"  Laura  burst  out. 

"I  don't  think  of  that,"  York  replied.  "Not 
really  knowing  any  woman  but  my  sister,  I  can't 
judge  them  by  the  sample.  Besides,  this  'girl 
thing'  may  have  elected  to  come  to  the  Sage 
Brush  herself;  that  would  be  like  Jim  Swaim. 
Or  she  may  be  making  a  lark  of  the  trip;  that's 
her  mother's  child.  And,  anyhow,  she  has  prop 
erty  in  her  own  name,  you  see." 

"Property,  bosh!    WTiere  is  this  precious  claim 

93 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

that  is  to  sustain  this  luxuriously  reared  child?" 
Laura  Macpherson  insisted. 

"It  is  an  undeveloped  claim  down  the  Sage 
Brush,  in  a  part  of  the  country  you  haven't  seen 
yet.  That  is  what  this  child  of  luxury  has  come 
out  for  to  live  upon,"  York  said,  with  a  minor 
chord  of  anxiety  in  his  voice. 

Then  a  silence  fell,  for  Laura  Macpherson  felt 
that  something  tragical  must  be  bound  up  in  the 
course  of  coming  events. 

It  was  the  poet's  hour  of  "nearly  dark."  The 
"high  lights"  were  beginning  to  gleam  from  the 
cupola  of  the  court-house  and  high-school,  and 
station  tower  out  across  the  open  stretch  that  lay 
between  it  and  the  town.  New  Eden  was  unusually 
well  lighted  for  its  size.  York  Macpherson  had 
forced  that  provision  into  the  electric  company's 
franchise.  But  New-Edenites  were  still  rural  in 
their  ways,  and  never  burned  up  the  long  summer 
twilight  with  bug-alluring  street  lights.  Homes, 
too,  were  mostly  shadowy  places,  with  the  dwellers 
resting  in  porch  swings  or  lawn  chairs.  Moreover, 
although  there  was  a  little  leakage  somewhere 
through  which  things  disappeared  occasionally,  no 
body  in  town  except  bankers,  postmasters,  and 
mortgage  companies  locked  their  doors.  The  jail 
was  usually  empty  on  the  Saturday  night,  and 
the  churches  were  full  on  Sunday,  as  is  the  normal 
condition  of  Middle  West  towns  in  a  prohibition 
state. 

94 


NEW    EDEN'S    PROBLEM 

"The  wind  is  in  the  east.  It  will  rain  to-mor 
row,"  York  said,  after  a  pause.  "I  had  planned  to 
go  to  the  upper  Sage  Brush  country  for  a  couple 
of  days.  I'll  wait  till  after  Sunday  now." 

Laura  Macpherson  did  not  know  whether  the 
last  meant  relief  or  anxiety.  York  was  not  read 
able  to-night. 

"What  are  you  staring  at?"  York  asked,  pres 
ently,  from  his  vine-sheltered  angle,  as  he  saw  his 
sister  looking  intently  down  into  the  street. 

"Humans,"  Laura  replied,  composedly. 

"Not  the  Big  Dipper,  I  hope.  Isn't  the  town 
big  enough  without  her  ranging  all  over  'Kin- 
gussie'?" 

"Oh,  York,  you  will  call  Mrs.  Bahrr  'the  Big 
Dipper'  to  her  face  some  day,  if  you  don't  quit 
your  private  practice,"  Laura  declared. 

"Well,  her  name  is  Stella  Bahrr.  'Stellar,*  she 
calls  it,  and  she  pronounces  her  surname  just 
plain  'Bear.'  If  that  isn't  starry  enough  I  don't 
know  my  astronomy.  And  she  is  always  dipping 
into  other  folks's  business  and  stirring  up  trouble 
with  a  high  hand.  Laura,  once  and  for  all,  never 
tie  up  with  that  little  old  hat-trimmer.  She'll 
trim  you  if  you  do." 

"Don't  be  uneasy  about  our  getting  chummy. 
I'm  positively  rude  to  her  most  of  the  time.  She 
isn't  coming  here.  She  has  veered  off  toward  the 
Len wells'.  But  look  who  is  coming,  York." 

York  shifted  his  chair  into  line  with  the  street. 

95 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"It's  the  fair  Philadelphia!!  and  her  pompous 
gentleman  in  waiting,"  York  declared. 

"Look  at  little  Brother  Ponk  strut,  would  you? 
'A  charge  to  keep  I  have.'  But,  York,  Miss 
Swaim  appears  a  bit  too  Philadelphian  for  our 
New  Eden  scenery!"  Laura  exclaimed. 

"She  is  a  type  all  her  own,  I  would  say.  Jim 
Swaim's  determined  chin  and  Lesa's  dreamy  eyes. 
She  will  be  an  interesting  study,  at  least.  I  wonder 
which  parent  will  win  in  her  final  development," 
York  replied,  as  the  two  approached  the  house. 

"I  have  brought  the  young  lady  to  call  on  you," 
Mr.  Ponk  said,  presenting  his  companion  with  a 
flourish,  as  if  she  were  a  trophy  cup  or  a  statue 
just  unveiled.  "Sorry  I  can't  stay  to  visit  with 
you,  but  my  clerk  is  out  to-night.  They'll  take 
care  of  you  beautiful,  Miss  Swaim.  No,  thank 
you,  no.  I'll  just  soar  back  to  the  hotel." 

He  waved  off  the  seat  York  had  proffered  him, 
and  bowed  himself  away  as  gracefully  as  a  short, 
round  man  can  bow. 

Laura  Macpherson  had  an  inborn  gift  of  hos 
pitality,  but  she  realized  at  once  that  this  guest 
brought  an  unusual  and  compelling  interest.  She 
was  conscious,  too,  in  a  vague  way,  of  the  portent 
of  some  permanent  change  pending.  What  she 
saw  clearly  was  a  very  pretty  girl  with  a  soft 
voice  and  a  definite,  forceful  personality. 

"Miss  Swaim,  you  must  be  tired  after  your  long 
journey,"  Laura  began,  courteously. 

96 


NEW    EDEN'S    PROBLEM 

"Please  don't  call  me  that.  I  am  so  far  from 
home  I'll  be  'Miss  Swaimed'  enough,  anyhow." 

The  appeal  in  the  blue  eyes  broke  down  all 
reserve. 

"Then  I'll  call  you  'Jerry,'  as  I  did  when  you 
were  a  little  girl  and  I  was  beginning  to  think 
about  getting  grown  up,"  Laura  exclaimed. 

"And  since  you  are  far  from  home,  we  hope  you 
may  find  a  home  welcome  in  our  house,  and  that 
you  will  come  at  once  and  be  our  guest  indefi 
nitely,"  York  added,  with  his  winning  smile  that 
ought  to  have  sent  him  to  Congress  years  ago. 

Something  about  Jerry  Swaim  had  caught 
Laura  Macpherson  in  a  moment.  She  hoped  that 
York  had  the  same  feeling.  But  York  was  one  of 
the  impenetrable  kind  when  he  chose.  And  he 
certainly  chose  that  evening  to  prove  his  impene 
trability. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  Jerry  said,  looking  at 
York  with  earnest  eyes,  void  of  all  coquettishness. 
Then,  turning  to  York's  sister,  she  went  on: 

"I  am  not  tired  now.  But  the  last  part  of  my 
journey  was  frightful.  The  afternoon  was  hot, 
and  the  wind  blew  terrifically.  They  had  to  close 
the  windows  to  keep  out  the  dust.  Then  we  were 
delayed  in  what  they  told  me  was  called  a  'blow 
out."1  Her  eyes  were  sparkling  now,  but  her  em 
phasis  on  the  term  seemed  to  cut  against  York 
Macpherson's  senses  like  burning  sand-filled  wind 
as  he  sat  studying  her  face. 

97 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"All  the  'blowouts'  I  ever  heard  of  were  in  the 
tires  of  our  limousine  car,"  she  continued,  musing 
ly.  "And  my  cousin,  Gene  Wellington,  of  Phila 
delphia,  didn't  know  what  to  do  about  them  at 
all.  He  is  an  artist,  and  artists  never  do  take  to 
practical  things.  Gene  was  more  helpless  when 
anything  went  wrong  with  the  car  than  ever  I 
was,  and  awfully  afraid  of  taking  a  risk  or  any 
thing." 

And  that,  it  seemed  to  the  Macphersons,  must 
have  been  helpless  indeed.  For  as  she  sat  there  at 
ease  in  the  shadowy  dimness  of  the  summer 
evening,  York  Macpherson  thought  of  Carlyle's 
phrasing,  "Her  feet  to  fall  on  softness;  her  eyes 
to  light  on  splendor,"  a  creature  fitted  only  to 
adorn  the  upholstered  places  of  life. 

"Did  you  ever  see  that  dreadful  'blowout' 
thing?"  Jerry  asked,  coming  back  from  the  recol 
lection  of  limousine  cars  and  Cousin  Gene  of 
Philadelphia. 

"No,  I  have  only  been  here  a  short  time  my 
self,  and  the  country  is  almost  as  new  to  me  as  it 
is  to  you,"  Laura  Macpherson  replied. 

"Oh,  it  is  such  an  awful  place!"  Jerry  continued. 
"Everywhere  and  everywhere  one  can  see  nothing 
but  great  sand- waves  all  over  the  land.  They 
have  almost  buried  the  palisades  that  protect  the 
railroad.  It  just  seemed  like  the  Red  Sea  dividing 
to  let  the  Israelites  go  through,  only  this  was  red- 
hot  sand  held  back  to  let  the  train  pass  through  a 

98 


NEW    EDEN'S    PROBLEM 

deep  rift.  And  to-day  the  wind  had  filled  up  the 
tracks  so  it  couldn't  go  through  until  the  sand 
was  cleaned  out.  There  is  only  one  kind  of  shrub, 
a  spiny  looking  thing,  growing  anywhere  on  all 
those  useless  acres.  It  is  a  perfectly  horrid  coun 
try!  Why  was  such  land  ever  made?"  Jerry 
turned  to  York  with  the  question. 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  York  said,  "but  there  are 
some  good  things  here." 

"Yes,  there  is  my  claim,"  Jerry  broke  in.  "It's 
all  I  have  left,  you  know.  Cousin  Gene  tried  to 
persuade  me  it  would  be  better  off  without  me, 
but  I'm  sure  it  must  need  the  owner's  oversight  to 
make  it  really  profitable.  There  was  no  record, 
in  settling  up  the  estate,  of  its  having  produced 
any  income  at  all.  I  certainly  need  the  income 
now.  Taking  care  of  myself  is  a  new  experience 
for  me." 

All  the  vivacity  and  hopefulness  of  youth  was 
in  her  words.  But  the  dreamy  expression  on  her 
face  that  came  and  went  with  her  moods  soon 
returned. 

"Cousin  Gene  Wellington  is  not  my  real  cous 
in,  you  know.  He  is  Uncle  Darby's  relative,  not 
Aunt  Jerry's.  He  is  an  artist,  but  without  any 
income  right  now,  like  myself.  Both  of  us  have 
to  learn  how  to  go  alone,  you  see,  but  I'm  not  going 
back  to  Philadelphia  now,  no  matter  what  Aunt 
Jerry  Darby  may  say." 

This  was  no  appeal  for  sympathy.    Taking  care 

99 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

of  oneself  seemed  easy  enough  to  Lesa  Swaim's 
child,  to  whom  the  West  promised  only  one  grand 
romantic  adventure.  There  was  something,  too, 
in  the  tone  in  which  she  pronounced  the  name  of 
Gene  Wellington  that  seemed  to  set  it  off  from 
every  other  name.  And  she  pronounced  it  often 
enough  to  trouble  York  Macpherson.  No  other 
name  came  so  easily  and  so  frequently  and  frankly 
to  her  lips. 

"We  hope  you  will  like  the  West.  The  Sage 
Brush  isn't  so  bad  when  you  get  acclimated  to  its 
moods,"  York  assured  her.  "But  don't  expect 
too  much  at  first,  nor  too  definite  a  way  of  securing 
an  income." 

Only  Laura  Macpherson  caught  the  same  minor 
chord  of  anxiety  in  her  brother's  voice  that  she 
recalled  had  been  in  it  when  he  told  her  of  Jerry's 
claim.  It  seemed  impossible,  however,  that  any 
thing  could  refuse  to  be  profitable  for  this  charm 
ing,  blossomy  kind  of  a  girl  who  must  thrive  on 
easy  success  or  perish,  like  a  flower. 

"Oh,  land  always  means  an  income,  my  father 
used  to  say.  Aunt  Jerry  has  only  two  hundred 
acres,  but  it  is  a  fortune  to  her,"  the  girl  declared. 
"I'm  not  uneasy.  As  soon  as  I  get  a  real  hold 
on  my  property  here  I'll  be  all  right.  It  is  getting 
late.  I  must  go  now.  No,  I  am  going  by  myself," 
she  declared,  prettily,  as  York  prepared  to  accom 
pany  her  back  to  the  hotel.  "It  is  straight  up 

this  light  street  and  I  am  going  to  try  it  alone  from 

100 


NEW    EDEN'S    PROBLEM 

the  very  beginning.  That's  why  I  didn't  go  to 
your  office  as  soon  as  I  got  here  to-day.  I  told 
Cousin  Gene  I  could  take  care  of  myself  and 
make  my  own  way  out  here,  just  as  he  is  making 
his  own  way  in  the  East,  working  in  his  studio. 
No,  you  shall  not  go  with  me.  Thank  you  so 
much.  No.  Good-by."  This  to  York  Macpher- 
son,  who  was  wise  enough  to  catch  the  finality  of 
her  words. 

The  twilight  was  almost  gone,  but  a  young 
moon  in  the  west  made  the  street  still  light  as 
the  two  on  the  porch  watched  the  girl  going  firm- 
footed  and  unafraid,  unconscious  of  their  anxiety 
for  what  lay  in  the  days  before  her. 

"Is  it  courage,  or  contempt  for  the  West,  that 
makes  her  fearless  where  one  would  expect  her  to 
be  timid?  She  seems  a  combination  of  ignorance 
and  assertiveness  and  a  plea  for  sympathy  all  in 
one,"  Laura  Macpherson  declared. 

"She  is  the  child  of  two  different  temperaments 
— Jim  one,  and  Lesa  another;  a  type  all  her  own, 
but  taking  on  something  of  each  parent,"  York 
asserted,  as  he  watched  until  the  girl  had  disap 
peared  at  the  door  of  the  Commercial  Hotel,  far 
up  the  street. 

The  next  day  was  an  unusual  one  for  four  peo 
ple  in  New  Eden.  The  wind  came  from  the  east, 
driving  an  all-day  rain  before  it,  and  York  Mac 
pherson  did  not  go  to  the  upper  Sage  Brush  coun 
try.  Instead,  he  worked  steadily  in  his  office  all 

101 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

day.  Some  files  he  had  not  opened  for  months 
were  carefully  gone  over,  and  township  maps  were 
much  in  evidence.  Every  now  and  then  he  glanced 
toward  the  upper  windows  of  the  Commercial 
Hotel.  Mr.  Ponk  had  said  that  Jerry  had  No.  7, 
the  room  he  had  occupied  for  several  years.  He 
wondered  if  this  rain  was  making  her  homesick 
for  the  Winnowoc  Valley  and  "Eden"  and  that 
wonderful  Cousin  Gene,  blast  him!  There  was  a 
smile  in  York's  eyes  whenever  he  looked  across 
the  street.  When  he  turned  to  his  work  again  his 
face  was  stern.  What  he  thought  was  a  determina 
tion  not  to  be  bothered  by  rainy-day  loafers  coming 
into  his  office,  what  made  him  set  his  teeth  and 
grip  to  his  work,  was  really  the  fight  with  a  tempta 
tion  to  go  over  to  the  hotel  and  look  after  a  home 
sick  girl. 

Meantime  Jerry  Swaim,  snug  in  a  filmy  gray 
kimona  with  pink  facings  and  soft  gray  slippers, 
was  enjoying  the  day  to  the  full  limit.  Secure 
from  strangers,  relaxed  from  the  weariness  of 
travel,  she  slept  dreamlessly,  and  wakened,  pink 
and  rested,  to  watch  the  cool,  life-giving  rains  and 
dream  her  wonderful  day-dreams  wherein  new  ad 
venture,  victory  over  obstacles,  and  Eugene  each 
played  a  part.  Jerry  was  in  love  with  life.  Sun 
shine  and  rain,  wind  and  calm,  every  season,  were 
made  to  serve  her,  all  things  in  nature  to  bring 
her  interest  and  pleasure — all  except  sand.  That 
hot  hour  and  a  half  between  sand-leaguered  pali- 

102 


NEW   EDEN'S    PROBLEM 

sades  seared  her  memory.  But  that  was  all  down 
stream  now,  with  the  junction  station,  and  the 
country  Thelma,  and  the  tow-headed  woman  and 
flabby  flopping  baby,  and  the  little  old  Teddy 
Bear  humping  his  yellow-brown  fuzziness  against 
the  swirl  of  cinders  and  prairie  dust.  The  recollec 
tion  of  it  all  was  like  the  touch  of  a  live  coal  on 
the  cool  surface  of  her  tranquil  soul,  a  thing  ab 
horred  that  yet  would  not  be  uncreated  nor  for 
gotten. 

"To-morrow  will  be  Sunday."  The  little  pagan 
would  have  one  more  idle  day.  "I'll  get  a  letter 
from  Eugene  on  Monday.  On  Monday,"  dreamily, 
"  I'll  beg  into  live  here,  not  stay  here.  What  charm 
ing  folks  the  Macphersons  are !  and — so  different." 

There  was  a  difference.  Jerry  did  not  know,  nor 
care  to  analyze  it,  nor  explain  to  herself,  why 
these  two  people  had  in  themselves  alone  begun 
to  make  New  Eden  worth  while  for  her.  She  for 
whom  things,  human  and  otherwise,  had  hereto 
fore  been  created — all  except  sand. 

The  third  New-Edenite  who  had  some  special 
interests  on  this  rainy  day  was  Junius  Brutus 
Ponk.  Often  an  idler  in  the  Macpherson  Com 
pany's  office,  he  was  always  interesting  to  York. 
There  were  never  created  two  of  his  kind.  That  in 
itself  made  him  worth  while  to  the  big,  strong  man 
of  many  affairs.  And,  much  as  York  wanted  to 
be  alone  to-day,  he  welcomed  the  coming  of  Ponk. 
In  the  long,  serious  conversation  that  followed, 

103 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

their  usual  bantering  had  no  place.  And  when  the 
little  man  went  slowly  out,  and  slowly  crossed 
the  street  to  the  hotel,  indifferent  to  the  steady 
fall  of  rain,  York  Macpherson's  eyes  followed  him 
earnestly. 

"He'll  almost  forget  to  strut  if  that  girl  stays 
here — but  she  won't  stay.  And  he  will  strut.  He's 
made  that  way.  But  down  under  it  all  he's  a 
man,  God  bless  him — a  man  any  woman  could 
trust." 

Up  at  "Castle  Cluny"  the  rainy  day  brought 
one  caller  whom  "chilling  winds  nor  poisonous 
breath"  could  never  halt — Mrs.  Stellar  Bahrr, 
otherwise — "the  Big  Dipper" — the  town  gossip. 

Mrs.  Stellar  Bahrr  was  a  married,  widowed-by- 
divorce,  old-maid  type,  built  like  a  sky-scraper, 
of  the  lean,  uncertain  age  just  around  sixty,  with 
the  roundness  of  youth  all  gone,  and  the  plump 
beauty  of  matronliness  all  lacking,  wrinkled  with 
envy  and  small  malice,  living  on  repeating  what 
New  Eden  wanted  kept  untold.  Hiding  what 
New  Eden  should  have  known  of  her,  she  main 
tained  herself  on  a  pension  from  some  one,  known 
only  to  York  Macpherson,  and  the  small  income 
derived  just  now  from  trimming  over  last  year's 
hats  "to  make  them  look  like  four-year-olds," 
York  declared. 

The  real  milliner  of  the  town  was  a  brisk,  bright 
business  woman  who  had  Stellar  Bahrr  on  her 
trail  in  season  and  out  of  season.  Mrs.  Bahrr 

104 


NEW   EDEN'S    PROBLEM 

herself  could  not  have  kept  up  a  business  of  any 
kind  for  a  week,  for  she  changed  callings  almost 
with  the  moon's  phases. 

No  more  unwelcome  caller  could  have  intruded 
on  the  homey,  delicious,  rainy-day  seclusion  of 
"  Castle  Cluny." 

"I  jis*  run  in  to  see  the  hat  again  you're  goin* 
to  wear  to-morrow,  Miss  Laury.  I  'ain't  got  more 
'n  a  minute.  Ye  ain't  alone  this  dreary  day,  are 
ye?  The  Len wells  was  sayin'  last  night  your 
brother  was  goin'  to  the  upper  Sage  Brush  on  some 
business  with  the  Posers.  But  they're  in  town, 
rainy  as  it  is,  an'  all.  Did  he  go?" 

"No,  he  put  it  off  till  Monday,"  Laura  replied, 
wondering  what  interest  York's  going  or  coming 
could  be  to  Stellar  Bahrr. 

"As  I  was  sayin',  the  Posers  is  in  town.  Come  to 
meet  Nell  and  her  baby.  They  come  in  on  the 
freight  yesterday.  The  biggest,  bald-headest 
young  un  you  ever  see.  Nell  wants  her  hat  fixed 
over,  and  nothin'  on  the  livin'  earth  to  fix  it  with, 
ner  money  to  pay  for  it.  I'll  make  ol'  Poser  do 
that,  though.  Lemme  see  your  hat,  so's  I  can  get 
an  idy  or  two.  You've  got  some  'commodation, 
if  that  blamed  millinery-store  hain't.  Thank  ye 
for  the  favor." 

Stellar  had  a  way  of  pinning  her  eyes  through 
one  until  her  victim  could  not  squirm.  She  also 
had  a  way  of  talking  so  much  she  gave  the  impres 
sion  of  running  down  and  the  promise  of  a  speedy 

8  105 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

leave-taking,  which  she  never  took  until  she  had 
gained  all  the  information  she  wanted.  Her  talent 
in  a  good  cause  would  have  been  invaluable,  for 
she  was  shrewd,  patient,  and  everlastingly  per 
sistent. 

Laura  Macpherson  reluctantly  left  the  room 
to  get  her  hat,  wondering,  since  it  had  not  been 
out  of  the  box  before,  how  in  the  world  Stellar 
Bahrr  knew  anything  about  it.  Mrs.  Bahrr  was 
standing  by  the  dining-room  window  when  she 
returned. 

"I  jis'  come  out  here  to  see  if  the  Sage  Brush 
is  raisin*  down  yonder.  Who  is  that  strange  girl 
Ponk's  running  around  with  last  night?"  The 
gossip  turned  the  question  suddenly.  "I  seen  'em 
comin'  up  here  myself.  Folks  down-town  don't 
know  yet."  The  sharp,  steel-pointed  eyes  caught 
into  Laura  like  hooks. 

"I  don't — believe  you'll  like  this  hat."  Laura 
had  meant  to  say,  "I  don't  intend  to  tell  you," 
but  she  was  hooked  too  quickly. 

"Who'd  you  say  she  is?" 

There  was  no  courteous  way  out  now. 

"She  is  a  Miss  Swaim." 

"Say,  this  hat's  a  jew'l.  Looks  younger  'n  the 
girls'  hats  does  on  'em.  Where's  she  from?" 

"  East.  This  color  is  a  bit  trying  for  me,  I  think." 

"Oh,  no  'tain't!   What's  she  here  for?" 

"I —  You'll  have  to  ask  York."  Laura  rolled 
her  burdens  on  her  brother's  shoulders,  as  did 

106 


NEW    EDEN'S     PROBLEM 

likewise  the  remainder  of  New  Eden,  when 
crowded  to  the  wall. 

"York!  She  ain't  after  him,  I  hope.  Don't 
blush  so.  That's  a  good  one  on  York.  An'  he 
never  met  her  at  the  station,  even.  Ponk — little 
fiend"  (Ponk  always  turned  game-cock  when 
Stellar  approached  him),  "little  devil  he  is — he 
telephoned  in  from  down  at  the  sidin',  by  the  deep 
fishin'-hole." 

Mrs.  Bahrr  caught  her  breath  and  bit  her  lips 
as  she  eyed  her  hostess  slyly.  Laura  Macpherson 
was  white  with  disgust  and  anger.  Of  all  the  long- 
tongues,  here  was  the  queen. 

"Where's  the  deep  fishing-hole?"  she  asked,  in 
nocently,  to  get  her  unpleasant  caller  on  another 
tack. 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Bahrr  did  not  reply,  busying 
herself  with  examining  the  new  hat's  lining  and 
brim-curves.  If  Laura  had  known  what  York 
Macpherson  knew  she  would  have  realized  that 
here  was  the  place  to  score  by  dwelling  on  the 
deep  fishing-hole.  But  Laura  was  new  to  Sage 
Brush  traditions. 

"Ponk  calls  in  to  have  his  spanky  new  runabout 
all  ready  at  the  station.  George  nearly  busted 
hisself  gettin*  there.  Then  Ponk,  the  miserable 
brute,  he  hangs  around  and  keeps  Miss  Swine — 

"Swaim,  Geraldine  Swaim,"  Laura  cried,  in 
disgust. 

"Yes,  Geraldine  Swim — keeps  her  inside,  so's 

107 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

nobody  gets  a  good  look  at  her.  I  was  there  my 
self,  a-watchin'  him.  I'd  gone  to  see  if  my  fish  'd 
been  sent  up,  an'  when  they'd  all  cleared  out  he 
trots  her  out,  big  as  Cuffey,  and  races  to  the  hotel 
with  her.  Maybe,  though,  York  didn't  know  she 
was  comin',  or  had  Ponk  put  up  to  lookin'  after 
her  for  him.  You  never  can  tell  about  these  men. 
I  noticed  York  never  walked  home  with  her  last 
night,  neither.  'Course  it  was  light  as  day.  Well, 
well,  it's  interestin'  as  can  be.  An'  she  come  here 
purpose  to  see  your  brother,  too." 

"If  you  are  through  with  my  hat" — Laura  was 
fairly  gray  with  anger  and  her  eyes  flashed  as 
she  tried  to  control  herself. 

Nobody  was  wiser  than  Stellar  Bahrr  in  situa 
tions  like  this. 

"In  jest  a  minute.  Them's  the  daintiest  roses 
yet.  Thank  you,  Miss  Laury.  You  ain't  above 
helping  a  person  like  me.  There's  them  that  is 
here  in  New  Eden.  But  I  know  'em — I  know  'em. 
They  talk  to  your  back  and  never  say  a  word  to 
your  face,  not  a  blamed  word.  But  you're  not 
like  'em.  Everybody  says  you're  just  like  your 
brother,  an'  that's  enough  for  anybody  to  know 
in  the  Sage  Brush  country.  He's  been  the  best 
friend  I  ever  had,  I  know  that.  I  hope  that  pink- 
'n'-white  city  girl  '11  find  out  that  much  pretty 
quick.  Somebody  ought  to  tell  her,  too.  Well, 
good  day,  Miss  Laury.  My  umberel's  right  out 
side  in  the  umberel-stand." 

108 


NEW    EDEN'S     PROBLEM 

Poor  Laura!  She  was  no  fighter  from  choice,  no 
imputer  of  evil  motives,  but  her  love  for  her 
brother  amounted  almost  to  idolatry. 

"I'm  her  one  weakness,"  York  often  said.  "Her 
strength  is  in  her  sense  of  humor,  her  kind  heart, 
her  love  of  beautiful  things,  and  the  power  of  the 
old  scrapping  blood  of  the  Macphersons  that  will 
stand  so  much — and  then  Joan  of  Arc  is  a  tennis- 
player  alongside  of  my  blessed  sister  in  her  right 
eous  wrath." 

That  rainy  day  ended  with  a  problem  in  the 
minds  of  at  least  three  New  Eden  dwellers: 
York  Macpherson,  who  carried  a  bigger  load  now 
than  Joe  Thomson's  unwise  but  determined  mort 
gage  matter;  Junius  Brutus  Ponk,  who  was 
sharing  York's  problem  to  a  degree,  and  Laura 
Macpherson,  who  realized  that  a  malicious  under 
current  was  already  started  whose  undermining  in 
fluence  might  sooner  or  later  grow  into  a  menacing 
power. 

And  Jerry  Swaim,  unconscious  cause  of  all  this 
problem  element,  ate  and  slept  and  laughed  and 
dreamed  her  pretty  day-dreams  in  utter  content. 
It  was  well  that  the  next  day  was  Sunday.  The 
rain-washed  prairie  and  the  June  sunshine  did  so 
much  to  lift  the  tension  in  this  New  Eden  where 
even  the  good  little  snakes  are  not  always  so  very 
good.  . 


VI 

PARADISE   LOST 

TATJRA  MACPHERSON  came  through  the 
•*—*  dining-room  on  Monday  morning  with  her 
hands  full  of  wild  flowers. 

"Wherefore?"  York  asked,  seeing  the  breakfast- 
table  already  decorated  with  a  vase  of  sweet-peas. 

"Just  a  minute,  York.  I  got  these  with  the 
dew  on  them — all  prairie  flowers.  I  thought  Jerry 
might  be  up  to  see  me  to-day.  I  went  out  after 
them  for  her,"  Laura  explained,  as  she  arranged 
the  showy  blossoms  in  vases  about  the  rooms. 

York  dropped  behind  his  day-old  paper,  calling 
after  her,  indifferently:  "I  doubt  if  they  are  worth 
it.  You  must  have  gone  to  the  far  side  of  'Kin- 
gussie'  for  them.  I  doubt,  too,  if  she  comes  here 
to-day,  but  I  haven't  any  doubt  that  I  am  hungry 
and  likely  to  get  hungrier  before  you  get  ready 
for  breakfast." 

"Coming,  coming."  Laura  came  hastily  to  the 
table.  "I  forgot  you  in  my  interest  in  Jerry." 

"A  prevalent  disease  in  New  Eden  right  now," 

York  said,  behind  his  paper.     "Ponk  nearly  fell 

110 


PARADISE    LOST 

down  on  getting  me  a  chauffeur  for  to-day;  the 
superintendent  didn't  get  the  quarterlies  to  our 
Sunday-school  class  on  time  yesterday  morning; 
the  Big  Dipper  took  the  wrong  pew  and  kept  it, 
and  now  my  breakfast  must  wait — all  on  account 
of  this  Jerry  girl." 

"Mournful,  mournful!"  Laura  declared.  "Such 
a  little  girl,  too!  I'd  like  to  tell  you  what  your 
Big  Dipper  said  about  Jerry  Saturday,  but  I 
mustn't." 

"Saturday  was  a  rainy  day,"  York  commented, 
knowing  Laura  would  answer  no  questions  if  he 
should  ask  them  now. 

"All  the  more  reason  why  the  Big  Dipper  should 
come  over  to  copy  my  new  hat  for  one  of  the 
Poser  girls  up  the  Sage  Brush,  and  then  fall  to 
questions  and  conclusions,"  Laura  insisted. 

"I  thought  yesterday  was  the  grand  opening 
for  that  lid  of  yours.  Where  did  the  B.  D.  see  it?" 
York  would  not  ask  for  what  he  wanted  most  to 
know. 

"It  had  positively  never  been  out  of  the  box 
since  it  came  here,"  Laura  declared.  "But  pshaw, 
York,  it  is  the  gossip  you  want  to  know,  and  I'm 
really  concerned  about  that." 

"I'm  not.  I  am  really  concerned  about  where 
Stellar  Bahrr  saw  your  hat."  York  was  very 
serious  and  his  sister  was  puzzled  for  the  minute. 
He  never  looked  that  way  when  he  joked — never. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about   Mrs.  Bahrr's 
ill 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

gift  of  second  sight,  York;  I'm  simply  telling 
what  I  do  know.  That  hat-box  was  not  opened. 
Let's  talk  of  better  things.  Mr.  Ponk  told  me 
at  church  yesterday  that  when  Jerry  first  came 
she  asked  for  'an  old  gentleman  named  York 
Macpherson.' '  Laura's  eyes  were  twinkling  with 
mischief.  "From  what  she  said  to  me  yesterday 
she  is  going  to  depend  on  you  for  direction,  just 
like  everybody  else  who  comes  to  New  Eden. 
I'm  dead  in  love  with  her  already.  Aren't  you?" 
"Desperately,"  York  returned.  "But  seri 
ously,  Laura,  she  is  'most  too  big  a  responsibility 
to  joke  about.  There  are  a  lot  of  things  tied  up 
for  her  in  this  coming  West.  I  have  to  go  to  the 
upper  Sage  Brush  this  morning  to  be  gone  for  a 
couple  of  days.  I  wish  she  would  come  here  and 
stay  with  you,  so  that  she  might  be  with  the  best 
woman  in  the  world."  York  beamed  affectionately 
upon  the  sweet-faced  woman  opposite  him.  "I 
wish  I  didn't  have  to  leave  this  morning,  but  I'll 
be  back  by  to-morrow  night  or  early  Wednesday 
morning.  It  is  going  to  be  our  job  to  map  out  her 
immediate  future.  After  that,  things  will  take 
their  course  without  us,  and  New  Eden,  I  imagine, 
will  have  to  get  along  without  her.  When  I  get 
back  I'll  take  her  down  to  see  her  claim.  Ponk 
is  the  only  man  besides  myself  who  knows  where 
it  is,  and  I've  fixed  him.  He  can't  run  a  hotel 
and  garage  and  play  escort  all  at  once.  I  want 

to  prepare  her  in  a  way,  anyhow,  for  she  won't 

112, 


PARADISE    LOST 

find  exactly  what  she  is  expecting — another 
'Eden'  six  times  enlarged.  Meantime  turn  her 
gently,  if  you  can,  toward  our  woolly  Western  life. 
I  won't  say  lead.  Geraldine  Swaim,  late  of  Phila 
delphia,  will  never  be  led." 

"York  she's  a  lamb.  Look  at  her  big,  pleading 
eyes,"  his  sister  insisted. 

"Laura,  she's  a  rock.  Look  at  her  square  chin. 
I'm  going  now,  and  I  will  and  bequeath  her  to 
your  care.  Good-by." 

As  he  left  the  house  his  sister  heard  him  whistling 
the  air  to  the  old  song,  "I'll  paddle  my  own  canoe." 

Evidently  the  fair  Philadelphian  was  still  on  his 
mind. 

"I  wish,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  cleared  the 
north  limits  of  the  New  Eden  settlement  and 
struck  out  toward  the  upper  Sage  Brush  country — 
"I  wish  to  goodness  I  had  pressed  Laura  to  tell 
me  more  about  what  that  infernal  Big  Dipper 
said  to  her  Saturday.  I'll  get  that  creature 
yet.  I  believe  she  knows  that  as  well  as  I  do. 
I  wish,  too,  I  was  sure  things  would  just  stay  put 
until  I  get  back." 

Half  an  hour  after  York  had  left  town  Jerry 
Swaim,  dressed  for  a  drive,  appeared  at  the  door 
of  Ponk's  garage. 

"Have  you  a  good  little  runabout  that  I  could 
hire  this  morning?  I  want  to  go  out  into  the 
country,"  she  said  to  the  proprietor. 

"Why,  yes,  Miss  Swaim,  but  I  'ain't  got  no 

113 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

shofer  this  morning.  York  Macpherson,  he  took 
my  last  man  and  soared  up  the  country,  and  they 
won't  be  back  for  a  couple  of  days.  I'm  sorry,  but 
could  you  wait  till,  say,  about  a-Thursday,  or 
mebby  a-Friday?" 

Ponk's  cheerful  grin  always  threatened  to 
eclipse  his  eyes,  but  this  morning  there  was  some 
thing  anxious  back  of  his  cheerfulness.  Nature 
had  made  him  in  a  joking  mood,  round  eyed,  round 
headed,  round  bodied,  talkative,  and  pompous  in  an 
inverse  ratio  to  his  size.  But  there  was  something 
always  good  and  reliable  about  Ponk,  and  with 
all  his  superficiality,  too,  there  was  a  real  depth 
to  the  man,  and  a  keener  insight  than  anybody 
in  New  Eden,  except  York  Macpherson,  ever  gave 
him  credit  for  having. 

"I'm  sorry  I've  got  no  shofer.  There  was  a 
run  on  the  livery  business  this  morning  for  some 
reason.  That's  why  I'm  office-boy  here  now,  'stead 
of  runnin'  the  office  next  door,"  Ponk  explained, 
as  blandly  and  conclusively  as  possible. 

"I  don't  want  a  chauffeur  at  all.  I  drive  my 
self,"  Jerry  declared. 

"You  say  you  do?"  Ponk  stared  at  her  little 
hands  in  their  close-fitting  white  gauntlets. 

"Now  I'd  never  thought  that.  Yes,"  weakly, 
"I've  got  a  dandy  car  for  them  that  can  use  it, 
which  is  mostly  me.  It's  the  little  gray  gadabout 
we  come  up  from  the  station  in  the  other  evening. 

There  ain't  another  one  like  it  this  side  of  the 

in 


PARADISE    LOST 

Mississippi  River — S'liny,  Kansas,  anyhow.  You 
see,  I  have  to  be  awful  particular.  I  don't  want 
it  smashed  against  a  stone  wall  or  run  off  of  some 
bridge." 

"I've  never  done  that  with  a  car  yet.  And  I 
used  to  drive  our  big  eight-cylinder  machine  over 
all  kinds  of  Pennsylvania  roads." 

The  blue  eyes  were  full  of  pathos  as  the  memory 
of  her  home  and  all  its  luxuries  swept  over  Jerry. 
And  Ponk  understood. 

"We  don't  have  no  stone  walls  out  here,  and 
there  ain't  no  bridges,  either,  except  across  the 
Sage  Brush  in  a  few  places,  because  there  ain't 
never  water  enough  out  here  to  bridge  over.  Yes, 
you  may  take  the  gadabout.  I  just  know  you'll 
be  careful.  That  little  car's  just  like  a  colt,  and 
noways  bridle-wise  under  a  woman's  hand." 

"Thank  you.    I'll  take  no  risks." 

When  Jerry  was  seated  in  the  shining  gray  car, 
with  her  hand  on  the  wheel,  she  turned  to  Mr.  Ponk. 

"By  the  way,  do  you  know  who  owns  any  of 
the  claims,  as  you  call  them,  in  this  valley?"  she 
asked.  "I  was  going  to  speak  to  Mr.  Macpherson, 
but  you  say  he  has  gone  out  of  town." 

"  Yes'm."  Ponk  fairly  swelled  with  importance. 
"I  know  every  claim,  and  who  owns  it,  from  the 
hills  up  yonder  clear  to  the  mouth  of  that  stream. 
My  hotel  an'  livery  business  together  keeps  me  as 
well  posted  as  the  Macpherson  Mortgage  Company 
that  holds  a  mortgage  on  most  of  them." 

115 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  to  find  the  one  belonging 
to  the  estate  of  the  late  Jeremiah  Swaim,  of  Phila 
delphia?"  Jerry  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  short  little  man  beside  the  car  looked  away 
in  pity  and  surprise  as  he  said: 

"Yes'm,  I  can.  You  follow  this  street  south 
and  keep  on  till  you  come  to  where  the  Sage 
Brush  makes  a  sharp  bend  to  the  east,  right  at 
a  ranch-house.  From  there  you  leave  the  trail 
(we  still  call  that  down-stream  road  'the  trail') 
and  strike  across  to  three  big  cottonwood-trees  on 
a  kind  of  a  knoll,  considerable  distance  away. 
You  can't  miss  'em,  for  you  can  see  'em  for  miles. 
And  then" — Ponk  hesitated  as  if  trying  to  remem 
ber — "seems  to  me  you  turn,  bias'n'  like,  south 
east  a  bit,  and  head  for  a  little  bunch  of  low  oaks. 
From  there  you  run  your  eye  around  and  figger 
how  many  acres  you  can  see.  An',  it's  all  Jeremiah 
Swaim's,  or  his  heirs  an'  assignees.  But,  say, 
you  ain't  any  kin  to  the  late  Mr.  Swaim,  who 
never  seen  that  land  of  hisn,  I  reckon?  I  hadn't 
thought  about  your  names  being  the  same.  Odd 
I  didn't." 

There  was  something  wistful  in  the  query  which 
Jerry  set  down  merely  as  plebeian  curiosity,  but 
she  answered,  courteously: 

"Yes,  he  was  my  father.  The  land  belongs  to 
me." 

"Say,  hadn't  you  better  wait  and  let  York 
Macpherson  soar  down  with  you?"  Ponk  sug- 

116 


PARADISE    LOST 

gested.  "It  might  be  better,  after  all,  mebby, 
not  to  go  alone  to  spy  out  the  land,  even  if  you 
can  drive  yourself.  Seems  to  me  York  said  he'd 
be  goin'  down, that  way  the  last  of  the  week.  I 
do  wish  you'd  wait  for  York  to  go  with  you  first." 

"I  want  to  go  alone,"  Jerry  replied,  and  with 
a  deft  hand  she  made  the  difficult  curve  to  the 
street,  leaving  the  proprietor  of  the  garage  staring 
after  her. 

"Well,  by  heck!  she  can  run  a  car  anyhow!" 
he  exclaimed,  as  he  watched  her  speeding  away. 
"Smart  as  her  dad,  I  reckon.  Mebby  a  little 
smarter." 

All  of  Lesa  Swaim's  love  of  romantic  adventure 
was  shining  on  Jerry  Swaim's  bright  face  as  she 
came  upon  Laura  Macpherson  on  the  cool  side 
porch  a  few  minutes  later. 

"I'm  going  out  to  inspect  my  royal  demesne," 
she  cried,  gaily. 

"Not  to-day.  I  want  you  to  spend  the  day  with 
me,  and  you  don't  know  the  road.  You  haven't 
any  way  to  go.  York  will  be  home  soon.  He  wants 
to  take  you  there  himself.  He  understands  land 
values,  and,  anyhow,  you  oughtn't  go  alone," 
Laura  Macpherson  said,  emphatically. 

"That  is  just  what  Mr.  Ponk  said  at  the  garage, 
but  I  want  to  go  alone." 

That  "I  want"  settled  everything  with  Jerry 
Swaim  in  the  Kansas  New  Eden  as  in  the  old 
"Eden"  in  the  green  valley  of  the  Winnowoc. 

117 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"I  have  hired  a  runabout  of  Mr.  Ponk.  He 
gave  me  directions  so  I  can't  miss  the  way.  Good- 
by." 

The  trail  down  the  Sage  Brush  was  full  of  de 
light  this  morning  for  the  young  Eastern  girl  who 
sent  her  car  swiftly  along  the  level  road,  almost 
forgetting  the  landmarks  of  the  way  in  the  exhila 
ration  of  youth  and  June-time.  And,  however  out 
of  place  she  might  seem  on  the  Western  prairie, 
no  one  could  doubt  her  ability  to  handle  a  car. 

"'Where  the  stream  bends  sharp  to  the  east 
away  from  a  ranch-house,'"  Jerry  was  quoting 
Ponk.  "I'm  sure  I  can't  miss  it  if  I  follow  his 
directions  and  the  stream  and  bend  and  house 
and  cottonwood-trees  and  oak-grove  are  really 
there.  I  love  oaks  and  I  hope  my  woodland  is 
full  of  them.  There  must  be  a  woodland  on  my 
farm,  even  if  the  trees  are  few  and  small  and 
scattered  here,  so  far  as  I  have  seen.  But  there 
was  really  something  pitiful  in  the  little  man's 
eyes  when  he  was  talking  to  me.  Maybe  he  is  a 
wee  bit  envious  of  my  possessions.  Some  men  are 
jealous  of  women  who  have  property.  No  doubt 
my  workmen  will  need  managing,  and  some 
adjusting  to  a  new  head  of  affairs.  I'll  be  very 
considerate  with  them,  but  they  must  respect 
my  authority.  I  wish  Gene  was  with  me  this 
morning." 

Then  she  fell  to  musing. 

"I  wonder  what  message  Gene  will  send  me,  and 

118 


PARADISE    LOST 

whether  he  will  write  it  himself,  or,  as  he  sug 
gested,  will  send  it  through  Aunt  Jerry's  letters  to 
York.  It  was  his  original  way  of  doing  to  say 
I'd  find  things  out  through  Aunt  Jerry,  when  she 
probably  won't  write  me  a  line  for  a  long  time.  I 
know  Gene  will  choose  nobly,  and  I  know  every 
thing  will  turn  out  all  right  at  last.  ...  I  wonder 
if  my  place  is  as  beautiful  as  this.  How  I  wish 
Gene  could  see  it  with  his  artist  eyes." 

Jerry  brought  her  engine  down  to  slow  speed 
as  she  passed  a  thrifty  ranch-house  where  barns 
and  clustering  silos,  and  fields  of  grain  and  cattle- 
dotted  prairies  outlying  all,  betokened  the  possi 
bilities  of  the  Sage  Brush  Valley.  The  blue  eyes 
of  Lesa  Swaim's  daughter  were  full  of  dreamy 
light  as  she  paused  to  picture  here  the  possibilities 
of  her  own  possessions. 

At  the  crest  of  a  low  ridge  the  road  forked,  one 
branch  wandering  in  and  out  among  the  small 
willow-trees  along  the  river,  and  the  other  cutting 
clean  and  broad  across  the  rougher  open  land 
swelling  away  from  the  narrowed  valley. 

"Here's  something  Mr.  Junius  Brutus  Ponk  left 
out  of  his  map.  I'll  take  the  rim  road;  it  looks 
the  more  inviting,"  Jerry  decided,  because  the 
way  of  least  resistance  had  been  her  life-road 
always. 

This  one  grew  narrow  and  clung  close  to  the 
water's  side.  Its  sandy  bed  was  damp  and  firm, 
and  the  slender  trees  on  either  side  here  and  there 

119 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

almost  touched  branches  overhead.  Mile  after 
mile  it  seemed  to  stretch  without  another  given 
landmark  to  show  Jerry  her  destination.  Beyond 
where  the  road  curved  sharply  around  a  thicket  of 
small  trees  and  underbrush  Jerry  halted  her  car. 
Before  her  the  waters  of  the  river  rippled  into  foam 
against  a  rocky  ledge  that  helped  to  form  a  deep 
hole  above  it.  Below,  the  stream  was  shallow, 
and  in  dry  midsummer  here  offered  rough  stepping- 
stones  across  it.  It  was  a  lonely  spot,  with  the 
river  on  one  side  and  a  tangle  of  bushes  and  tall 
weeds  on  the  other,  and  the  curves  along  the  road 
way,  filled  with  underbrush  and  low  timber  shut 
ting  off  the  view  up-stream  and  down-stream. 

At  the  coming  of  Jerry's  car  a  man  who  had 
been  kneeling  over  some  fishing-lines  at  the  river's 
edge  rose  up  beside  the  road,  brushing  the  wet 
sand  from  his  clothes,  and  staring  at  her.  He  was 
small  and  old  and  stooped  and  fuzzy,  and  thor 
oughly  unpretty  to  see. 

"It's  the  Teddy  Bear  who  'sat  in  the  sand  and 
the  sun '  coming  up  from  that  horrid  railroad  junc 
tion.  Who's  afraid  of  bears?  I'll  ask  him  how 
to  find  my  lost  empire." 

Jerry  did  not  reflect  that  it  was  the  unconscious 
effect  of  this  humble  creature's  thoughtfulness  for 
her  that  made  her  unafraid  of  him  in  this  lonely 
spot.  Reflection  was  not  yet  one  of  her  active 
psychological  processes. 

"I  want  to  find  a  ranch-house  by  a  big  bend  in 

120 


PARADISE    LOST 

the  river  where  it  turns  east/'  Jerry  said,  looking 
at  the  man  much  as  she  would  look  at  the  bend 
in  the  river — merely  for  the  information  to  be 
furnished.  He  pushed  his  brown  cap  back  from 
his  forehead  and  rubbed  his  fingers  thoughtfully 
through  his  thin  sunburnt  hair. 

"It's  Joe's  place,  eh?"  the  high,  quavering  voice 
squeaking  like  an  unused  machine  afraid  of  itself. 
"You'd  ought  to  took  the  t'other  fork  of  the  road 
back  yander.  It's  a  goodish  mile  on  down  this 
way  now  to  where  you  das  to  turn  your  cyar  round. 
When  you  get  where  you  kin  turn,  then  go  back 
and  take  the  t'other  fork.  It  '11  take  you  right  to 
Joe's  door  about." 

The  words  came  hesitatingly,  as  if  the  speaker 
had  little  use  for  sounding  them  in  his  solitary, 
silent  life.  Fishermen  don't  catch  fish  by  talking 
to  them. 

"A  mile!  I  think  I'll  turn  right  here,"  Jerry 
declared. 

Then,  as  the  meek  unknown  watched  her  in 
open-mouthed  wonder,  she  swung  her  car  deftly 
about,  the  outer  wheels  barely  keeping  a  toe-hold 
on  the  edge  of  the  river-bank,  with  hardly  more 
than  an  inch  of  space  between  them  and  the  crum 
bling  sand  above  the  water.  As  she  faced  the 
way  over  which  she  had  come  she  reached  out  to 
drop  a  piece  of  silver  into  the  man's  hand.  He  let 
it  fall  to  the  ground,  then  picked  it  up  and  laid 
it  on  the  top  of  the  car  door. 
9  121 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"I  ain't  workin*  for  the  gov'mint,"  he  quavered. 
"I  thankee,  but  I  don't  have  no  kno win's  to  sell. 
Ye're  welcome  to  my  ketch  of  information  any 
day  ye're  on  the  river." 

He  made  an  odd  half-military  salute  toward  his 
old  yellow-brown  cap  and  shuffled  across  the  road 
toward  a  narrow  path  running  back  through  the 
bushes. 

At  the  bend  in  the  river  Jerry  found  herself. 

"That  must  be  the  ranch-house  that  Mr.  Ponk 
gave  me  for  a  landmark,  for  there  goes  the  river 
bending  east,  all  right.  What  a  quaint,  picturesque 
thing  that  is,  and  built  of  stone,  too,  with  ivy 
all  over  it!  It  must  have  been  here  a  long  time. 
And  how  well  kept  everything  is!  The  old  Teddy 
Bear  said  it  was  'Joe's  place.'  Well,  Joe  keeps  it 
looking  as  different  from  some  of  the  places  I've 
passed  as  'Eden'  differs  from  other  country-places 
back  in  Pennsylvania." 

The  long,  low,  stone  ranch-house,  nestling  under 
its  sheltering  vines,  had  an  old  and  familiarly 
homey  look  to  Jerry. 

"That  wide  porch  is  a  dream.  I'll  have  one 
just  like  it  on  my  place.  I  wonder  if  this  farm  has 
any  name.  I  suppose  not.  What  shall  I  call 
mine?  'New  Eden'  wouldn't  do,  of  course.  I 
might  call  it  'Paradise  Prairie.'  That's  pretty  and 
smooth.  Gene  would  like  that,  and  talk  a  lot 
about  going  'from  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God/ 
I  don't  care  a  whiff  about  all  his  religious  talk, 


PARADISE    LOST 

somehow.  That's  just  one  thing  wherein  we  will 
never  agree.  If  I  can  go  from  nature  to  the  fin 
ished  produce  I'll  be  satisfied.  Oh,  yonder  are 
my  three  trees." 

At  the  bend  of  the  Sage  Brush  Jerry  left  the 
stream  road  and  sped  across  a  long  level  swell 
toward  three  cottonwood-trees  standing  sentinel 
on  a  small  rise  of  the  prairie.  From  there  she 
was  to  see  the  oak-grove,  the  center  of  her  own  rich 
holdings.  Oh,  Jerry! 

Down  under  the  spreading  oaks  a  young  man 
in  rough  ranchman's  dress  stood  leaning  against  a 
low  bough,  absorbed  in  thought.  He  was  tall, 
symmetrically  built,  and  strong  of  muscle,  without 
a  pound  of  superfluous  fat  to  suggest  anything  of 
ease  and  idleness  in  his  day's  run.  Some  of  the 
lines  that  mark  the  stubborn  will  were  graven  in 
his  brown  face,  but  the  eyes  were  all-redeeming. 
Even  as  he  stared  out  with  unseeing  gaze,  lost  in 
his  own  thoughts,  the  smile  that  lighted  them 
hovered  ready  to  illuminate  what  might  otherwise 
have  been  a  severe  countenance. 

In  all  the  wide  reach  of  level  land  there  was  no 
other  living  creature  in  sight.  The  breeze  pulsing 
gently  through  the  oak  boughs  poured  the  sun 
light  noiselessly  down  on  the  shadow-cooled  grass 
about  the  tree-trunks.  The  freshness  of  the  morn 
ing  lingered  in  the  air  of  the  grove. 

Suddenly  the  young  man  caught  the  sound  of  an 

123 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

automobile  coasting  down  the  long  slide  from  the 
three  cottonwoods,  and  turned  to  see  a  young  girl 
in  a  shining  gray  car  gliding  down  into  the  edge  of 
the  shade.  A  soft  hat  of  Delft-blue,  ornamented, 
valkyrie- wise,  with  two  white  wings;  golden- 
gleaming  hair  overshadowing  a  face  full  of  charm; 
blue  eyes;  cheeks  of  peach-blossom  pink;  firm, 
red  lips;  a  well-defined  chin  and  white  throat;  a 
soft  gown,  Delft-blue  in  color;  and  white  gauntlet 
gloves — all  these  were  in  the  blurred  picture  of 
that  confused  moment. 

As  for  Jerry  Swaim,  all  farmer  folk  looked  alike 
to  her.  It  was  not  the  sudden  appearance  of  a 
stranger,  but  the  landscape  beyond  him,  that  held 
her  speechless,  until  the  shrill  whistle  of  a  train 
broke  the  silence. 

"Is  that  the  Sage  Brush  Railroad  so  near?" 
she  asked,  at  last,  with  no  effort  at  formal 
greeting. 

"Yes,  ma'am.  It  is  just  behind  the  palisades 
over  there.  You  can't  see  it  from  here  because 
the  sand-drifts  are  so  high.  That's  the  morning 
freight  now." 

The  light  died  out  of  Jerry  Swaim's  eyes,  the 
pink  bloom  faded  to  ivory  in  her  cheeks,  even  the 
red  lips  grew  pale,  as  she  stared  at  the  scene  before 
her.  For  the  oak-grove  stood  a  lone  outpost  of 
greenness  defending  a  more  or  less  fertile  country 
side  from  a  formless,  senseless  monster  beyond  it. 
Jerry  had  pictured  herself  standing  in  the  very 

124 


PARADISE    LOST 

center  of  her  heritage,  where  she  might  "run  her 
eyes  around,"  as  Ponk  had  said,  "and  figure  how 
many  acres  she  could  see,  and  they  were  all  hers.'* 
And  now  she  was  here. 

Wide  away  before  her  eyes  rippled  acre  on  acre, 
all  hers,  and  all  of  billowing  sand,  pointed  only 
by  a  few  straggling  green  shrubs.  The  glare  of  the 
sunlight  on  it  was  intolerable,  and  the  north  wind, 
sweeping  cool  and  sweet  under  the  oak-trees, 
brought  no  comfort  to  this  glaring  desert. 

Suddenly  she  recalled  the  pitying  look  in  Ponk's 
eyes  when  he  had  begged  her  to  wait  for  York 
Macpherson  to  come  with  her  to  this  place,  and 
she  had  thought  he  might  be  envious  of  her  good 
fortune.  And  then  she  remembered  that  Laura 
Macpherson  had  put  up  the  same  plea  for  York. 
He  was  the  shield  and  buckler  for  all  New  Eden, 
it  would  seem.  And  the  three,  Laura  and  York 
and  Ponk,  all  knew  and  were  pitying  her,  Jerry 
Swaim,  who  had  been  envied  many  a  time,  but 
never,  never  pitied.  Even  in  the  loss  of  the  Swaim 
estate  in  Philadelphia,  Mrs.  Jerusha  Darby  had 
made  it  clear  to  every  one  that  her  pretty  niece 
was  still  to  be  envied  as  a  child  of  good  fortune. 

Flinging  aside  her  hat  and  gloves,  unconscious 
of  the  stray  sunbeams  sifting  down  through  the 
oak  boughs  on  her  golden  hair,  Jerry  Swaim  gazed 
toward  the  railroad  with  wide-open,  burning  eyes, 
and  her  white  face  was  pitiful  to  see.  At  length 
she  turned  to  the  young  man  who  still  stood  leaning 

125 


THE   RECLAIMERS 

against  the  oak  bough  beyond  her  car,  waiting  for 
her  to  speak. 

"Can  I  be  of  any  service  to  you?"  he  asked, 
courteously. 

"Who  are  you?"  Jerry  questioned,  with  uncon 
scious  bluntness. 

"My  name  is  Joe  Thomson."  The  smile  in  his 
eyes  lighted  his  face  as  he  spoke. 

"Tell  me  all  about  this  place,  won't  you?"  Jerry 
demanded,  pointing  toward  the  gleaming  sands. 
"Was  it  always  like  this,  here?  I  thought  when 
the  Lord  finished  the  earth  He  looked  on  His  work 
and  found  it  good.  Did  He  overlook  this  spot?'* 

Surprise  and  sarcasm  and  bitter  disappointment 
were  all  in  her  tone  as  she  asked  these  questions. 

Joe  Thomson  frowned  as  he  replied: 

"It  wasn't  an  oversight  at  all.  There  was  a 
fine  piece  of  prairie  here  until  a  few  years  ago, 
with  only  one  little  sandy  strip  zigzagging  across 
it.  Ages  back,  there  may  have  been  a  stream 
along  that  low  place  yonder  that  dried  up  and 
blew  away  some  time,  when  the  forest  fires  changed 
the  prehistoric  woodlands  into  prairies.  I  can't  be 
accurate  about  geology  and  such  things  if  his 
tory  and  the  Scriptures  are  silent  on  these  fine 
points." 

Joe  Thomson  still  stood  leaning  against  the  oak 
limb.  The  confusion  of  meeting  this  handsome 
stranger  had  passed.  He  was  in  his  own  territory 
now,  talking  of  things  of  which  he  knew.  He 

126 


PARADISE    LOST 

knew,  too,  how  to  put  his  thoughts  into  good, 
expressive  English. 

"There  are  beautiful  farms  up  the  river — 
ranches,  I  mean.  What  has  changed  this  prairie 
to  such  an  awful  place?"  Jerry  questioned, 
eagerly. 

"Eastern  capital  and  lack  of  brains  and  energy," 
Joe  answered  her.  "It  is  just  a  blowout,  that's 
all.  It  began  in  that  sandy  strip  in  that  low  place 
along  over  there  by  the  railroad,  where,  as  I  say, 
some  old  river-bed,  maybe  the  Sage  Brush,  might 
have  been  long  ago  before  it  made  that  big  bend 
in  its  course  up  by  my  buildings.  A  crazy,  money- 
mad  fool  from  back  East  came  out  here  and  plowed 
up  all  this  ground  one  dry  season,  a  visionary 
fellow  who  dreamed  of  getting  a  fortune  from  the 
land  without  any  labor.  And  when  the  thing  be 
gan  to  look  like  real  work  he  cut  the  whole  game, 
just  like  a  lot  of  other  fools  have  done,  and  went 
back  East,  leaving  all  these  torn,  unsodded  acres 
a  plaything  for  the  winds.  There  were  three  or 
four  dry  seasons  right  after  that,  and  the  soil  all 
went  to  dust  and  blew  away.  But  the  sand  grew, 
and  multiplied,  and  surged  over  the  face  of  this 
particular  spot  of  the  Lord's  earth  until  it  has  come 
to  be  a  tyrant  of  power,  covering  all  this  space  and 
spreading  slowly  northward  up  over  the  next 
claim.  That's  mine." 

"What  is  it  doing  to  your  land?"  Jerry  asked. 

"Ruining  it,"  Joe  replied,  calmly. 

127 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"And  you  don't  go  mad?"  the  girl  cried,  impul 
sively. 

"We  don't  go  mad  on  the  Sage  Brush  till  the 
last  resort,  and  we  don't  often  come  to  that. 
When  we  can't  do  one  thing,  out  West,  we  do 
another.  That's  all  there  is  to  it."  The  smile  was 
in  his  eyes  again  as  Joe  said  this. 

"Do  you  know  who  owns  this  ground  now?" 
Jerry  tried  to  ask  as  carelessly  as  possible. 

"An  estate  back  in  Pennsylvania,  I  believe," 
Joe  replied. 

"What  is  it  worth?"  Jerry's  voice  was  hardly 
audible. 

"Look  at  it.  What  do  you  think  it  is  worth, 
as  a  whole,  or  cut  up  into  town  lots  for  a  summer 
resort?"  Joe  demanded. 

In  spite  of  his  calmness  there  was  a  harshness 
in  his  voice,  and  his  eyes  were  stern. 

Jerry  twisted  her  white  hands  helplessly.  "I 
don't  know — anything  worth  knowing,"  she  said, 
faintly,  looking  full  into  the  young  man's  face  for 
the  first  time. 

Afterward  she  remembered  that  he  was  power 
fully  built,  that  his  eyes  were  dark,  and  that  his 
teeth  showed  white  and  even,  as  he  repeated,  with 
a  smile: 

"You  don't  know  anything  worth  knowing. 
You  don't  quite  look  the  part." 

"Why  don't  you  answer  my  question?" 

Back  of  the  light  in  Jerry's  eyes  Joe  saw  that 

128 


PARADISE    LOST 

the  tears  were  waiting,  and  something  in  her  face 
hurt  him  strangely. 

"I  think  this  claim  is  not  worth — an  effort," 
he  declared,  frankly,  looking  out  at  the  wind- 
heaved  ridges  of  sand. 

"What  brought  you  here  to  look  at  it,  then?" 
Jerry  demanded. 

"Partly  to  despise  the  fool  who  owned  it  and 
let  it  become  a  curse." 

"Do  you  know  him?"  the  girl  inquired. 

"No.  But  if  I  did  I  should  despise  him  just 
the  same,"  Joe  Thomson  declared. 

"What  if  he  were  dead?"  Jerry  asked. 

"Pardon  me,  but  may  I  ask  what  brought  you 
down  here  to  look  at  such  a  place?"  Joe  inter 
rupted  her. 

"I  came  down  here  to  find  out  its  value.  It 
belongs  to  me.  My  only  inheritance.  I  have 
always  lived  in  a  big  city  until  now,  and  I  know 
little  of  country  life  except  its  beauty  and  com 
fort,  and  nothing  at  all  of  the  West.  But  I  can 
understand  you  when  you  say  that  this  claim  is 
not  worth  an  effort.  I  hope  I  shall  never,  never 
see  it  again.  Good-by." 

The  firm,  red  lips  quivered  and  the  blue  eyes 
looked  up  through  real  tears  as  Jerry  Swaim 
drew  on  her  gloves  and  fitted  the  soft  blue  hat 
down  on  the  golden  glory  of  her  hair.  Then  with 
out  another  word  she  turned  her  car  about  and 
sped  away. 

129 


II 

JERRY   AND   JOE 


VII 

UNHITCHING   THE  WAGON  FROM  A   STAR 

T_TOW  long  is  a  mid- June  day?  Ticked  off  by 
•*•  •*•  the  almanac,  it  is  so  much  time  as  lies 
between  the  day-dawn  and  the  dark  of  evening. 
But  Jerry  Swaim  lived  a  lifetime  in  that  June  day 
in  which  she  went  out  to  enter  upon  her  heritage. 
From  the  moment  she  had  turned  away  from  the 
young  farmer  under  the  oak-trees  until  she  reached 
the  forks  of  the  road  again  she  did  not  take  cog 
nizance  of  a  single  object.  The  three  big  cotton- 
wood  sentinels,  the  vine-covered  ranch-home,  the 
deep  bend  of  the  Sage  Brush  to  the  eastward,  were 
passed  unnoted.  Ponk's  gray  gadabout  seemed  to 
know  the  way  home  like  a  faithful  horse. 

There  was  no  apparent  reason  why  the  junction 
of  the  two  highways  should  have  momentarily 
called  the  bewildered  disappointed  girl  to  her 
calmer  self.  No  more  was  there  anything  logical 
in  her  choosing  to  turn  again  down  the  narrow 
river  road.  The  lone  old  fisherman  was  the  farthest 
down  in  the  scale  from  Geraldine  Swaim  of  any 
human  being  who  had  ever  shown  her  a  favor. 

133 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

He  could  not  have  had  any  interest  for  her.  .  .  . 
But  York  M acpherson  was  correct  in  his  estimate 
of  Jerry.  She  was  a  type  in  herself  alone.  She 
drove  far  beyond  the  narrow  place  by  the  deep 
hole  where,  with  accurate  eye  and  clear  skill,  she 
had  played  a  game  of  chance  with  the  river  and 
fate  and  guardian  angels.  Her  tires  had  cut  a 
wide,  curving  gash  across  the  sand  of  the  road. 

"My  gracious  alive!  that  was  a  close  turn!" 
she  exclaimed,  as  she  caught  sight  of  her  wheel- 
marks.  "No  wonder  the  old  Teddy  Bear  looked 
scared.  One  inch  or  less!  Well,  there  was  that 
inch.  But  what  for?  To  enter  on  my  vast  landed 
— vast  sanded — estate  in  the  kingdom  of  Kansas!'* 

Jerry  smiled  grimly  in  ridicule  of  her  foolish,  de 
frauded  self.  Then  hi  a  desperate  effort  to  blot 
out  of  mind  what  she  had  seen  she  hurled  the  gray 
car  madly  forward.  With  the  bewildered  gropings 
of  a  shipwrecked  landsman  she  was  struggling  to 
get  her  bearings,  she  for  whom  the  earth  had 
been  especially  designed.  As  the  hours  passed 
the  road  became  dry  and  sunny,  with  the  north 
breeze  tempering  the  air  to  the  coolness  of  a  rare 
Kansas  June  day,  entirely  unlike  the  hot  and 
windy  one  on  which  Jerry  had  first  come  up  this 
valley.  She  did  not,  in  reality,  cover  many  miles 
now,  because  she  made  long  stops  in  sheltered 
places  and  at  times  let  the  gray  machine  merely 
creep  on  the  sunny  stretches,  but  in  her  mind  she 
had  girdled  the  universe. 

134 


UNHITCHING   THE   WAGON   FROM  A   STAR 

In  the  late  afternoon  she  turned  about  wearily, 
as  one  who  has  yet  many  leagues  of  ground  to 
cover  before  nightfall.  The  sunlight  glistened 
along  the  surface  of  the  river  and  a  richer  green 
gleamed  in  what  had  been  the  shadowy  places 
earlier  in  the  day;  but  the  driver  in  the  car  paid 
little  heed  to  the  lights  and  shadows  of  the  way. 

"If  a  man  went  right  with  himself."  Cornelius 
Darby's  words  came  drifting  across  the  girl's  mind. 
"Poor  Uncle  Cornie!  He  didn't  begin  to  live,  to 
me,  until  he  was  gone.  Maybe  he  knew  what  it 
meant  for  a  man  not  to  go  right  with  himself. 
And  if  a  woman  went  right  with  herself!" 

Jerry  halted  her  car  again  by  the  deep  hole 
and  looked  at  nothing  where  the  Sage  Brush 
waters  were  rippling  over  the  rough  ledge  in  its 
bed.  For  the  first  time  since  she  had  sat  under 
the  oak-trees  and  looked  at  the  acres  that  were 
hers,  Jerry  Swaim  really  found  herself  on  solid 
ground  again.  The  bloom  came  slowly  back  to 
the  ashy  cheeks,  and  the  light  into  the  dark-blue 
eyes. 

"If  I  can  only  go  right  with  myself,  I  shall  not 
fail.  I  need  time,  that's  all.  There  will  be  a  letter 
from  Eugene  waiting  when  I  get  back  to  town, 
and  that  will  make  up  for  a  lot.  There  must  be 
some  way  out  of  all  the  mistakes,  too.  It  wasn't 
my  land  that  I  saw.  Mr.  Ponk  must  have  directed 
me  wrongly.  That  country  fellow  may  not  know 
the  facts.  I'll  go  back  and  ask  York  Macpherson 

135 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

right  away.  Only,  he's  gone  out  of  town  for  two 
days.  Oh  dear!" 

She  wrung  her  hands  as  the  picture  of  that  oak- 
grove  and  all  that  lay  beyond  it  came  vividly  be 
fore  her.  She  tried  to  forget  it  and  for  a  moment 
she  smiled  to  herself  deceivingly,  and  then — the 
smile  was  gone  and  by  the  determined  set  of  her 
lips  Jerry  was  her  father's  own  resolute  child  again. 

"I  don't  exactly  know  what  next,  except  that 
I'm  hungry.  Why,  it  is  five  o'clock!  Where  has 
this  day  gone,  and  where  am  I,  anyhow?" 

Her  eyes  fell  on  the  broad  ruts  across  the  road. 
Then  back  in  the  bushes  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
low  roof. 

"I  smell  fish  frying.  I'll  starve  to  death  if  I 
wait  to  get  back  to  the  Commercial  Hotel!" 
Jerry  exclaimed.  "Here's  the  wayside  inn  where 
I  find  comfort  for  man  and  beast." 

She  called  sharply  with  her  horn.  In  a  minute 
the  fuzzy  brown  fisherman  came  shuffling  along  the 
narrow  path  through  the  bushes. 

"I'm  dreadfully  hungry,"  Jerry  said,  bluntly. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  explain  to  this  creature 
why  she  happened  to  be  here  and  hungry  at  this 
time.  She  wanted  something;  that  was  sufficient. 

"Can't  you  let  me  have  some  of  your  fish?  I 
am  desperate,"  she  went  on,  smiling  at  the  sur 
prised  face  of  the  man  who  stared  up  at  her  in 
silence. 

"Yes'm,  I  can  give  you  what  I  eat.     Just  a 

136 


UNHITCHING   THE   WAGON   FROM  A   STAR 

minute,"  he  squeaked  out,  at  last.  Then  he  shuf 
fled  back  to  where  the  bit  of  roof  showed  through 
the  leaves. 

While  the  girl  waited  a  tall,  slender  woman 
came  around  the  brushy  bend  ahead.  She  halted 
in  the  middle  of  the  road  and  stared  a  moment 
at  Jerry;  then  she  came  forward  rapidly  and 
passed  the  car  without  looking  up.  She  wore  a 
plain,  grayish-green  dress,  with  a  sunbonnet  of 
the  same  hue  covering  her  face — all  very  much 
like  the  bushes  out  of  which  she  seemed  to  have 
come  and  into  which  she  seemed  to  melt  again. 
In  her  hand  she  carried  a  big  parcel  lightly,  as  if 
its  weight  was  slight.  As  Jerry  turned  and  looked 
after  her  with  a  passing  curiosity,  she  saw  that 
the  woman  was  looking  back  also.  The  young 
city-bred  girl  had  felt  no  fear  of  the  strange  coun 
try  fellow  in  the  far-away  oak-grove;  she  had  no 
fear  of  this  uncouth  fisherman  in  this  lonely  hidden 
place;  but  when  she  caught  a  mere  glimpse  of 
this  woman's  eyes  staring  at  her  from  under  the 
shadows  of  the  deep  sunbonnet  a  tremor  of  real 
fright  shook  her  hands  grasping  the  steering-wheel. 
It  passed  quickly,  however,  with  the  reappearance 
of  the  host  of  the  wayside  inn. 

"This  is  delicious,"  Jerry  exclaimed,  as  the 
hard  scaly  hands  lifted  a  smooth  board  bearing 
her  meal  up  to  her. 

Fried  fish,  hot  corn-bread,  baked  in  husks  in  the 
ashes,  wild  strawberries  with  coarse  brown  sugar 
10  137 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

sprinkled  on  them,  and  a  cup  of  fresh  butter 
milk. 

The  girl  ate  with  the  healthy  appetite  that 
youth,  a  long  fast,  a  day  in  the  open,  and  a  vvell- 
cooked  meal  can  create.  When  she  had  finished 
she  laid  a  silver  half-dollar  on  the  board  beside 
the  cracked  plate. 

"'Tain't  nuthin';  no,  'tain't  nuthin'.  I  jis* 
divided  with  ye,"  the  fisherman  insisted,  shrilly. 

"Oh,  it  is  worth  a  dollar  to  drink  this  good  but 
termilk!" 

Jerry  lifted  the  cup,  a  shining  silver  mug,  and 
turned  it  in  the  light.  It  was  of  an  old  pattern, 
with  a  quaint  monogram  on  one  side. 

"This  looks  like  an  heirloom,"  she  thought. 
"Why  should  a  bear  with  cracked  plates  and  iron 
knives  and  forks  offer  me  a  drink  in  a  silver  cup? 
There  must  be  a  story  back  of  it.  Maybe  he's  a 
nobleman  in  disguise.  Well,  the  disguise  is  perfect. 
After  all,  it's  as  good  as  a  novel  to  live  in  Kansas." 

Jerry  slowly  sipped  the  drink  as  these  thoughts 
ran  through  her  mind.  The  meal  was  helping  won 
derfully  to  take  the  edge  off  of  the  tragedy  of  the 
morning.  It  would  overwhelm  her  again  later, 
but  in  this  shady,  restful  solitude  it  slipped  away. 

She  smiled  down  at  the  old  man  at  the  thought 
of  him  in  a  story.  Him!  But  the  smile  went 
straight  to  his  heart;  that  was  Jerry's  gift,  making 
him  drop  his  board  tray  and  break  the  cracked 
plate  in  his  confusion. 

138 


UNHITCHING  THE   WAGON   FROM  A   STAR 

"Here's  another  quarter.  That  was  my  fault," 
Jerry  insisted. 

"Ohno'm,  no'm!  'Tain't  nobody's  fault."  The 
voice  quavered  as  the  scaly  brown  hand  thrust 
back  the  proffered  coin. 

Jerry  could  not  understand  why  this  creature 
should  refuse  her  money.  Tipping,  to  her  mind, 
covered  all  the  obligations  her  class  owed  to  the 
lower  strata  of  the  earth's  formation. 

At  sunset  York  Macpherson  drove  into  Ponk's 
garage. 

"Hello,  fellow-townsman!  You  look  like  a  sick 
man!"  he  exclaimed,  as  the  owner  met  him  in  the 
doorway. 

"I'd  'a'  been  a  dead  man  if  you  hadn't  come 
this  minute,"  Ponk  growled  back. 

"Congratulations!  The  good  die  young,"  York 
returned.  "I  failed  to  get  through  to  the  place  I 
wanted  to  see.  That  Saturday  rain  filled  the  dry 
upper  channels  where  a  bridge  would  rot  in  the  tall 
weeds,  but  an  all-day  rain  puts  a  dangerous  flood 
in  every  ford,  so  I  came  back  in  time  to  save  your 
life.  What's  your  grievance?" 

Ponk's  face  was  agonizing  between  smiles  and 
tears.  "Well,  spite  of  all  I,  or  anybody  could  do, 
Miss  Swaim  takes  my  little  gadabout  this  morning 
and  makes  off  with  it." 

"And  broke  the  wind-shield?  I  told  you  to  keep 
her  at  home." 

139 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

York  still  refused  to  be  serious. 

"I  don't  know  what's  broke,  except  my  feelin's. 
You  tried  yet  to  keep  her  anywhere?  She  would 
go  off  to  that  danged  infernal  blowout  section  of 
the  country,  and  she  ain't  back  yet." 

York  Macpherson  grasped  the  little  man  by  the 
arm.  "Not  back  yet!  Where  is  she,  then?" 

"She  ain't;  that's  all  I  know,"  Ponk  responded, 
flatly.  "Yes,  yes,  yonder  she  is  just  soarin'  into 
the  avenue  up  by  'Castle  Cluny'  this  minute. 
Thank  the  Lord  an'  that  Quaker-colored  gad 
about!" 

"Tell  her  I'll  see  her  at  the  hotel  as  soon  as  I 
get  my  mail,"  York  said,  and  he  hurried  to  his 
office. 

A  few  minutes  later  Jerry  Swaim  brought  the 
gray  runabout  up  to  the  doorway  of  the  garage. 

Ponk  assisted  her  from  it  and  took  the  livery 
hire  mechanically. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Swaim.  Hope  you  had  a 
safe  day.  No'm,  that's  too  much,"  handing  back 
a  coin  of  the  change.  "That's  regular.  Yes'm." 
Then,  as  an  afterthought,  he  added,  with  a  bow, 
"York  Macpherson  he's  in  town  again,  an*  he's 
waitin'  to  see  you  in  the  hotel  'parlor."1 

"Oh!"  a  gasp  of  surprise  and  relief.  "Thank 
you,  Mr.  Ponk.  Yes,  I  have  had  a  safe  day." 
And  Jerry  was  gone. 

The  little  man  stared  after  her  for  a  full  minute. 
Then  he  gave  a  long  whistle. 

140 


UNHITCHING   THE   WAGON   FROM   A   STAR 

"She's  a  Spartan,  an'  she's  goin'  to  die  game. 
I'll  gamble  on  that  with  Rockefeller.  This  is  the 
rummiest,  bummiest  world  I  ever  lived  in,"  he 
declared  to  himself.  "Why  the  dickens  does  the 
blowouts  have  to  fall  on  the  just  as  well  as  the 
unjust  's  what  I  respectfully  rise  to  ask  of  the 
Speaker  of  all  good  an'  perfect  gifts.  An'  I'm 
goin'  to  keep  the  floor  till  I  get  the  recognition  of 
Chair." 

York  Macpherson  was  standing  with  his  back 
to  the  window,  so  that  his  face  was  in  the  shadow, 
when  Jerry  Swaim  came  into  the  little  parlor. 
Her  eyes  were  shining,  and  the  pink  bloom  on  her 
cheek  betokened  the  tenseness  of  feeling  held  in 
check  under  a  calm  demeanor. 

"Pardon  me  for  keeping  you  waiting,  Mr. 
Macpherson.  I've  been  away  from  town  all  day 
and  I  wanted  to  get  my  mail  before  I  came  in. 
I'm  a  long  way  from  everybody,  you  know." 

There  may  have  been  a  hint  of  tears  in  the  voice, 
but  the  blue  eyes  were  very  brave. 

"And  you  got  it?" 

That  was  not  what  York  meant  to  say.  It  was 
well  that  his  face  was  in  the  shadow  while  Jerry's 
was  in  the  light.  There  are  times  when  a  man's 
heart  may  be  cut  to  the  quick,  and  because  he  is 
a  man  he  must  not  cry  out. 

"No,  not  to-day.  I  don't  know  why,"  Jerry 
replied,  slowly,  with  a  determined  set  of  her  red 
lips,  while  the  fire  in  her  blue-black  eyes  burned 

141 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

steadily  and  the  small  hands  gripped  themselves 
together. 

"I  haven't  had  a  word  since  I  left  home,  and  I 
had  hoped  that  I  might  find  a  letter  waiting  for 
me  here." 

"Letters  are  delayed,  and  letter- writers,  too, 
sometimes.  Maybe  they  are  all  busy  with  Mrs. 
Darby's  affairs.  I  remember  when  I  was  a  boy 
up  on  the  Winnowoc  she  could  keep  me  busier 
than  anybody  else  ever  did,"  York  offered. 

"It  must  be  that.  Of  course  it  must.  Aunt 
Jerry  is  as  industrious  as  I  am  idle."  Jerry  gave  a 
sigh  of  relief. 

After  the  strain  of  this  day,  it  was  vastly 
comforting  to  her  to  stop  thinking  forward, 
and  just  remember  how  beautiful  it  must  be  at 
"Eden"  now;  and  Eugene  was  there,  and  it  was 
twilight.  But  like  a  hot  blast  the  memory  of 
the  hot  sand-heaps  of  her  landed  estate  came 
back. 

"Did  you  want  to  see  me  about  something?" 
she  asked,  suddenly.  "Mr.  Ponk  said  you  did." 

"Yes,  Jerry.  I  came  here  to  see  you  because 
my  sister  and  I  want  you  to  come  out  to  our  house 
at  once,  and  I  have  orders  from  Laura  not  to  come 
home  without  you." 

"You  are  very  kind.  You  know  where  I  have 
been  to-day?" 

York  smiled.  Even  in  her  abstraction  Jerry  felt 
the  genial  force  of  that  smile.  How  big  and 

142 


UNHITCHING   THE   WAGON   FROM   A   STAR 

strong  he  was,  and  there  was  such  a  sense  of  pro 
tection  in  his  presence. 

"Yes.  You  denied  me  the  privilege  of  escorting 
you  on  this  journey.  I  had  written  a  full  descrip 
tion  of  your  property  to  Cornelius  Darby,  in  reply 
to  some  questions  of  his,  but  his  death  must  have 
come  before  the  letter  reached  Philadelphia.  In 
the  mass  of  business  matters  Mrs.  Darby  may 
have  missed  my  report." 

"She  may  have,"  Jerry  echoed,  faintly.  "I 
cannot  say.  Then  it  is  my  estate  that  is  all  cov 
ered  with  sand,  barren  and  worthless  as  a  desert? 
I  thought  I  might  have  been  mistaken." 

The  hope  died  out  of  Jerry's  face  with  the 
query. 

"I  wish  I  could  have  saved  you  this  surprise," 
York  said,  earnestly.  "Come  home  with  me 
now.  'Castle  Cluny'  must  be  your  castle,  too,  as 
long  as  you  can  put  up  with  us.  And  you  can 
take  plenty  of  time  to  catch  your  breath.  The 
earth  is  a  big  place,  and,  while  most  of  it  is  covered 
with  water,  very  little  of  it  is  covered  entirely 
with  sand." 

How  kind  his  tones  were!  Jerry  remembered 
again  that  both  his  sister  and  Mr.  Ponk  had 
urged  her  to  wait  for  his  coming.  But  she  was 
not  accustomed  to  waiting  for  anybody.  A  faint 
but  persistent  self-blame  gripped  her. 

"May  I  stay  with  you  until  I  find  where  I  really 
am?  Just  now  I'm  all  smothered  in  bewildering 

143 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

sand-dunes."  She  smiled  up  at  the  tall  man  be 
fore  her  with  a  confiding,  appealing  earnestness. 

Many  women  smiled  upon  York  Macpherson. 
Many  women  confided  in  him.  He  was  accus 
tomed  to  it. 

"Laura  will  consider  it  a  boon,  for  you  must 
know  that  she  sometimes  gets  a  trifle  lonely  in 
New  Eden.  We'll  call  the  compact  finished."  Only 
a  gracious  intuition  could  have  turned  the  favor 
so  graciously  back  to  the  recipient.  But  that  was 
York's  gift. 

In  the  dining-room  at  "Castle  Cluny"  that 
evening  Jerry  noticed  a  silver  cup  with  a  quaintly 
designed  monogram  on  one  side. 

"That's  an  old  heirloom,"  Laura  said,  as  she 
saw  her  guest's  eyes  fixed  on  it.  "Like  everything 
else  in  this  house,  it  is  coupled  up  with  some  old 
Macpherson  clan  tradition,  as  befitting  an  old 
bachelor  and  old  maid  of  that  ilk." 

"We  used  to  have  two  of  them,"  York  said. 

"We  have  yet  somewhere,"  Laura  replied.  "I 
hadn't  missed  one  from  the  sideboard  before.  It 
must  be  back  in  the  silver-closet,  with  other  old 
silver  and  old  memories." 

Jerry's  day  had  been  full  of  changes,  up  and 
down,  from  hope  to  bitter  disappointment,  from 
reality  to  forgetfulness,  from  clear  conception  to 
bewildered  confusion,  her  mind  had  run  since 
she  had  left  the  oak-grove  in  the  forenoon.  When 
she  had  occasion  to  remember  that  silver  cup 

144 


UNHITCHING   THE    WAGON   FROM   A   STAR 

again,  she  wondered  how  she  could  have  passed  it 
over  so  lightly  at  this  time. 

Although  Jerry's  problem  was  very  real,  and  she 
brought  to  its  solution  neither  experience  nor  dis 
cipline,  unselfish  breadth  nor  spiritual  trust,  there 
was  something  in  the  homey  atmosphere  of  "Cas 
tle  Cluny  "  that  seemed  to  smooth  away  the  long 
day's  wrinkles  for  her.  Out  in  the  broad  porch 
in  the  twilight  she  nestled  down  like  a  tired  child 
among  the  cushions,  and  gazed  dreamily  out  at 
the  evening  landscape.  York  had  been  called  away 
by  a  neighbor  and  Laura  and  her  guest  were 
alone. 

"How  beautiful  it  is  here!"  Jerry  murmured, 
as  the  afterglow  of  a  prairie  sunset  flooded  the  sky 
with  a  splendor  of  rose  and  opal  and  amethyst. 
"I  saw  a  sunset  like  that  not  long  ago  in  an  art 
exhibit  in  Philadelphia.  I  thought  then  there 
couldn't  be  such  a  real  sunset.  It  was  in  a  land 
scape  all  yellow-gray  and  desert-like.  I  thought 
that  was  impossible,  too.  I've  seen  both — land 
and  sky — to-day,  and  both  are  greater  than  the 
artist  painted  them." 

"The  artist  never  equals  the  thing  he  is  trying 
to  copy,  neither  can  he  create  anything  utterly 
unreal.  I  missed  the  exhibits  very  much  when  I 
first  came  West,  but  this  is  some  compensation," 
Laura  said,  meditatively. 

"Do  you  ever  get  lonely  here?  I  suppose  not, 
for  you  didn't  come  to  find  a  great  disappoint- 

145 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

ment  when  you  came  to  New  Eden,"  Jerry  de 
clared,  watching  the  tranquil  face  of  her  hostess. 

"No,  Jerry,  I  brought  my  disappointment  with 
me,"  Laura  said,  with  a  smile  that  made  her  look 
very  much  like  her  brother.  And  Jerry  realized 
that  Laura  Macpherson's  maimed  limb  had  not 
broken  her  heart.  Laura  was  a  very  new  type  to 
her  guest. 

"Oh,  I  get  lonely  sometimes  and  resentful  some 
times,"  Laura  went  on,  "but  we  get  over  a  good 
many  little  things  in  the  day's  run.  And  then  I 
have  York,  you  know,  and  now  and  then  a  guest 
who  means  a  great  deal  to  me.  I  have  so  many 
interests  here,  too.  You'll  like  New  Eden  when 
you  really  know  us.  And  up  here  this  porch  has 
become  my  holy  of  holies.  There  is  something 
soothing  and  healing  in  the  breezes  that  sweep 
up  the  Sage  Brush  on  summer  evenings.  There  is 
something  restful  in  the  stretch  of  silent  prairie  out 
there,  and  the  wide  starlit  sky  above  it.  Kansas 
sooner  or  later  always  has  a  message  for  the  sons 
and  daughters  of  men." 

"And  something  always  interesting  in  our 
neighbors.  See  who  approaches."  York,  who  had 
just  come  up  the  side  steps,  supplemented  his 
sister's  remark. 

"Oh,  that  is  Mrs.  Stella  Bahrr,  the  Daily  Eve 
ning  News.  Jerry,  York  can  always  unhitch  your 
wagon  from  its  star.  She  really  is  his  black  beast, 
though;  but  you  can't  expect  mere  men  to  take 

146 


an  interest  in  milliners,  make-overs,  at  that,  how 
ever  much  interest  they  take  in  millinery  and  what 
is  under  it." 

"And  millinery  bills,  with  or  without  interest," 
York  interfered  again. 

"Mrs.  Bahrr  will  want  a  full  report  of  Jerry, 
with  the  blank  spaces  for  remarks  filled  out," 
Laura  went  on.  "Why,  she  has  changed  her 
course  and  is  tacking  away  with  the  wind." 

"  Going  over  to  the  Lenwells',  I  suppose.  They 
are  in  some  way  sort  of  distantly  related  to  her. 
Just  near  enough,  anyhow,  to  listen  to  all  her 
stories,  and  then  say:  'For  goodness,  sake  don't 
say  I  told  it;  I  got  it  from  Stellar,  you  know.' 
She  will  put  into  any  port  right  now.  I'm  her 
lighthouse  warning,"  York  declared.  "She  never 
approaches  when  I'm  present." 

York  had  risen  and  was  standing  in  the  doorway, 
where  the  growing  moon  revealed  him  clearly. 
Mrs.  Bahrr,  coming  up  the  walk  toward  the  Mac- 
pherson  drive,  suddenly  turned  about  and  hurried 
away,  her  tall,  angular  form  in  relief  against  the 
sky-line  in  the  open  space  that  lay  between  the 
Macpherson  home  and  the  nearest  buildings  down 
the  slope  toward  the  heart  of  the  town. 

"Coming  back  to  common  things,"  York  con 
tinued,  dropping  into  his  favorite  chair.  "My 
sister  scandalizes  me  on  every  occasion.  Whether 
or  not  you  hitch  your  wagon  to  a  star,  Jerry,  is 
not  so  important,  after  all.  The  real  test  is  in 

147 


THE   RECLAIMERS 

just  what  kind  of  a  star  you  hitch  to.  That  will 
tell  whether  you  are  going  to  ride  to  glory  or  cut 
such  a  figure  as  the  cow  did  that  jumped  over  the 
moon." 

"It  is  not  always  that  lawyers  give  counsel  for 
nothing,  Jerry,"  Laura  began,  but  the  line  of  talk 
was  again  interrupted. 

The  coming  of  callers  led  to  many  lines  of  dis 
cussion  during  the  long  summer  evening,  in  which 
Jerry  took  little  part.  In  this  new  hemisphere  in 
which  she  was  trying  to  find  herself,  where  east 
seemed  south  and  her  right  hand  her  left,  there 
was  so  much  of  the  old  hemisphere  against  which 
she  had  partly  burnt  her  bridges.  The  friendly 
familiarity  of  New  Eden  neighbors  was  very  differ 
ent  from  the  caste  exclusiveness  of  the  Darby- 
Swaim  set  in  Philadelphia.  With  the  Winnowoc 
Valley  people  the  rich  landholders  had  no  social 
traffic.  But  the  broad  range  of  conversation 
to-night,  token  of  general  information,  called  up 
home  memories  in  Jerry's  mind  and  the  long 
evenings  when  Jim  Swaim's  friends  gathered  there 
to  discuss  world  topics  with  her  father,  while  she 
listened  with  delight  to  all  that  was  said.  Her 
mother  didn't  care  for  these  things  and  wondered 
why  her  artistic  daughter  could  be  so  interested 
in  them.  But  when  the  Macphersons  and  their 
guests  spoke  of  the  latest  magazines  and  the  popu 
lar  fiction  and  the  recent  drama  it  brought  up 
Lesa  Swaim  in  her  element  to  the  listening  young 

148 


UNHITCHING  THE   WAGON   FROM   A   STAR 

stranger.  It  seemed  so  easy  for  the  Macphersons 
to  entertain  gracefully,  to  make  everybody  at 
home  in  the  shadowy  comfort  of  that  big  porch, 
to  bring  in  limeade  and  nut-cakes  in  cut-glass  and 
fine  china  service,  to  forget  none  of  the  things  due 
to  real  courtesy,  and  yet  to  envelop  all  in  the 
genuine,  open-hearted  informality  of  the  genial, 
open-hearted  West. 

Long  after  the  remainder  of  the  Macpherson 
household  was  asleep  Jerry  Swaim  lay  wide  awake, 
her  mind  threshed  upon  with  the  situation  in 
which  she  had  suddenly  found  herself.  And  over 
and  over  in  the  aisles  of  her  thoughts  what  York 
Macpherson  had  said  about  unhitching  from  a 
star  ran  side  by  side  with  Uncle  Cornie's  words, 
"If  a  man  went  right  with  himself." 


VIII 

IF  A  MAN   WENT   RIGHT   WITH   HIMSELF 


were  two  of  a  kind  of  the  Swaim 
blood,  Geraldine  Swaim,  who  had  always 
had  her  own  way,  and  Jerusha  Swaim  Darby,  who 
had  always  had  her  own  way.  When  the  wills 
and  the  ways  of  these  two  clashed  —  well,  Jerusha 
had  lived  many  years  and  knew  a  thing  or  two  by 
experience  that  niece  Geraldine  had  yet  to  learn. 

On  the  very  day  that  Jerry  Swaim  left  "Eden" 
Mrs.  Darby  had  gone  into  the  city  for  a  conference 
with  her  late  husband's  business  associates.  Sloth 
in  action  never  deprived  her  of  any  opportunities; 
and  quick  action  now  meant  everything  in  the 
accomplishment  of  the  purpose  she  had  before  her. 

"Cornelius  was  such  a  quiet  man,  he  was  never 
very  much  company.  He  really  did  not  care  for 
people,  like  most  men,"  Mrs.  Darby  said  to  her 
business  partners,  who  had  known  her  husband 
intimately.  "Eugene  Wellington  has  already  sur 
passed  him  in  getting  hold  of  some  things  he  never 
quite  reached  to,  being  an  older  man.  And  now 
that  Eugene  is  proving  such  splendid  help  in  tak- 

150 


IF   A    MAN    WENT   RIGHT    WITH    HIMSELF 

ing  up  the  less  important  details  in  my  affairs  he 
ought  to  do  fine  clerical  work  in  the  House  here. 
There  is  no  telling  how  much  ability  he  may  have 
for  being  useful  to  all  of  us  along  the  lines  that 
Cornelius  has  developed.  He  has  proved  that  he 
is  equal  to  a  lot  of  things  besides  painting.  People 
of  little  brain  power  and  financial  skill  ought  to 
paint  the  pictures  and  not  rob  our  big  affairs  of 
business  ability." 

Mrs.  Darby  held  a  controlling  interest  in  the 
House,  so  the  outcome  of  the  conference  was  that 
an  easy  berth  on  more  than  moderate  pay,  with 
possible  prospects — just  possible,  of  course — was 
what  Mrs.  Darby  had  to  take  back  to  "Eden"  to 
serve  up  to  Eugene  Wellington  when  he  should 
return  from  his  brief  errand  up  in  the  Winnowoc 
country.  And  as  that  was  what  Mrs.  Darby 
wished  to  accomplish,  her  day's  journey  to  the 
city  was  a  success. 

Only,  that  Winnowoc  local  was  uncomfortably 
hot  and  crowded.  Her  trusty  chauffeur  had 
resigned  his  position  on  the  day  after  Cornelius 
was  buried,  and  Mrs.  Darby  was  timid  about  the 
bluff  road,  anyhow.  If  only  Jerry  had  been  here 
to  drive  for  her!  With  all  Jerry's  dash  and  slash, 
she  was  a  fearless  driver  and  always  put  the  car 
exactly  where  she  wanted  it  to  be.  There  was  some 
satisfaction  in  having  a  hand  like  Jerry's  on  the 
steering-wheel.  So,  pleased  as  to  one  horn  of  her 
dilemma,  but  tired  and  perspiring,  Mrs.  Darby 

151 


THE   RECLAIMERS 

came  home  determined  more  than  ever  to  bring 
about  her  other  purpose — to  have  Jerry  Swaim  in 
her  home,  because  she,  Jerusha  Darby,  wanted 
her  there. 

Jerry  always  filled  the  place  with  interest.  And 
Jerry  was  gone,  actually  gone,  bag  and  baggage. 
She  had  cleared  out  that  morning  early  on  a  fool's 
errand  to  Kansas.  What  right  had  Jerry  to  go  off 
to  earn  a  living  when  a  living  was  here  ready- 
made  merely  for  her  subjection  to  a  selfish  old 
woman's  wishes?  Mrs.  Darby  did  not  think  it  in 
such  words,  because  she  no  more  understood  her 
own  mind  than  that  pretty  girl  with  her  dark-blue 
eyes  and  wavy,  gold-tinged  hair  understood  her 
own  mind.  One  thing  she  did  understand — Jerry 
must  come  back. 

A  week  later  Eugene  Wellington  dropped  off 
the  morning  train  running  down  from  Winnowoc. 
It  was  too  early  for  the  household  to  be  astir,  save 
the  early  feeder  of  stock  and  milker  of  kine,  the 
early  man-of-all-odd-jobs  who  looked  after  the 
fowls,  and  the  early  maid-of-all-good-things-to-eat 
who  would  have  big  puffy  biscuit  for  breakfast, 
with  tender  fried  chicken  and  gravy  that  would 
stand  alone.  All  the  homey  sounds  of  the  early 
summer  morning  flitted  out  from  the  "Eden" 
kitchen  and  barn-yard.  But  the  misty  stillness  of 
dawn  rested  on  the  "Eden"  lawns,  whose  owner, 
with  the  others  of  the  household,  was  not  yet  awake. 

At  the  rose-arbor  the  young  artist  paused  to  let 

152 


IF   A   MAN   WENT   RIGHT    WITH    HIMSELF 

the  refreshing  morning  zephyrs  sweep  across  his 
face.  He  wondered  if  Jerry  was  awake  yet.  Ever 
since  he  had  left  "Eden"  the  hope  had  been  grow 
ing  in  him  that  she  would  change  her  mind.  After 
all,  Aunt  Jerry  might  be  right  about  it.  This  was 
too  beautiful  a  house  to  throw  aside  for  a  whim — 
an  ideal,  however  fine,  of  self-support  and  all  that. 
Women  were  made  to  be  cared  for,  not  to  support 
themselves — least  of  all  a  pretty,  wilful,  but  win- 
somely  magnetic  creature  like  Jerry  Swaim,  with 
her  appealing,  beautiful  eyes,  her  brown  hair  all 
glinted  with  gold,  her  strong  little  white  hands, 
and  her  daring  spirit,  exhilarating  as  wine  in  its 
exuberant  influence.  No,  Jerry  mustn't  go.  She 
belonged  to  the  soft  and  lovely  settings  of  life. 

Eugene  leaned  against  the  door  of  the  rose- 
arbor  as  these  things  filled  his  mind,  and  a  love  of 
the  luxuries  that  surrounded  him  here  drove  back 
for  the  moment  the  high  purpose  of  his  own  life. 

In  the  woodwork  of  the  arbor,  where  the  light 
ning  had  left  its  imprint,  he  saw  a  little  white 
envelop  wedged  in  a  splintered  rift.  The  rose- 
vine  had  hid  it  from  every  angle  except  the  one  he 
had  chanced  to  take.  He  slipped  it  out  and  read 
this  inscription: 

"To  Mr.  Eugene  Wellington,  Artist." 

Inside,  on  Jerry's  visiting-card,  in  her  own  hand 
writing,  was  the  message:  "Write  me  at  New 
Eden,  Kansas,  Care  of  Mr.  York  Macpherson. 
Don't  forget  what  we  are  going  to  do,  and  when 

11  153 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

we  have  done,  and  won,  we'll  meet  again.  Good- 
by.  Jerry." 

The  young  artist  dropped  the  card  and  stared 
down  the  lilac-bordered  avenue  toward  the  shad 
owy  gray-blue  west  whither  Jerry  Swaim  was  gone. 
And  all  the  world  seemed  gray -blue,  a  great  void, 
where  there  was  neither  top  nor  bottom.  Then 
he  picked  up  the  card  again  and  put  it  into  his 
pocket,  and  went  into  the  house  to  get  ready  for 
breakfast. 

Mrs.  Darby  greeted  his  return  as  warmly  as  it 
was  in  her  repressed  nature  to  do,  conveying  to 
him,  not  by  any  word,  the  feeling  that  he  meant 
more  to  her  now  than  he  had  ever  meant  before. 

"Didn't  Jerry  leave  suddenly?  I  didn't  know 
she  was  going  so  soon.  I — I  was  hoping — to  find 
her  here,"  was  what  he  was  going  on  to  say. 

"That  she  would  be  willing  to  stay  here;  to 
give  up  this  scheme  of  hers."  Mrs.  Darby  finished 
the  sentence  for  him.  "Yes,  I  hoped  so,  too. 
That  was  the  only  right  thing  to  do.  She  chose 
her  own  time  for  leaving,  but  she  will  be  back  soon 
if  we  manage  right.  Don't  be  a  bit  discouraged, 
Eugene,  and  don't  give  up  to  her  too  much.  She 
loves  a  resisting  force.  She  always  did." 

Eugene  looked  anything  but  encouraged  just 
then.  All  "Eden"  was  but  an  echo  of  Jerry 
Swaim,  and  the  droop  of  his  well-formed  lips  sug 
gested  only  a  feeble  resisting  force  against  her 
smallest  wish. 

154 


IF    A    MAN    WENT    RIGHT    WITH    HIMSELF 

"She  is  my  own  flesh  and  blood.  I  know  her 
best,  of  course,"  Mrs.  Darby  went  on.  "The  only 
way  to  meet  her  is  to  let  her  meet  you.  But  we 
will  drop  that  now.  After  breakfast  I  want  you 
to  look  up  the  men.  I  have  told  them  to  report 
to  you  on  the  crop  values,  and  harvest  plans,  and 
fall  seeding  later.  Look  over  the  place  well,  won't 
you?  Then  meet  me  in  the  rose-arbor  at  ten 
o'clock  for  a  cup  of  tea  and  we  will  counsel  to 
gether." 

Mrs.  Darby  would  have  told  the  late  Cornelius 
to  "come  in  for  instructions  later."  But  Eugene 
Wellington  wasn't  a  sure  result.  He  was  only  in 
the  process  of  solution.  And  Eugene,  being  very 
human,  was  unconsciously  flattered  by  this  defer 
ence  to  a  penniless  young  man.  It  made  him 
pleased  with  himself  and  gave  him  a  vague  sense 
of  proprietorship  which  Cornelius  Darby,  the  real- 
in-law  owner  of  this  fine  country  estate,  never 
dreamed  of  enjoying. 

"I  wonder  what  Jerry  is  doing  this  morning," 
he  thought  as  he  rode  Cornelius  Darby's  high- 
school-gaited  horse  to  the  far  side  of  the  place. 

"The  more  I  see  of  this  farm  the  finer  it  looks 
to  me.  Not  a  foot  of  waste  ground,  not  a  nesting- 
place  for  weeds,  not  a  broken  fence;  grove  and 
stream,  and  tilled  fields,  and  gardens,  and  lawns, 
and  well-kept  buildings.  Not  an  unpainted  board 
nor  broken  hinge — everything  in  perfect  repair 
except  that  splintered  framework  at  the  rose- 

155 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

arbor."  He  paused  on  a  little  ridge  above  the 
Winnowoc  from  which  the  whole  farm  lay  in  full 
view.  His  artistic  eye  noted  the  peaceful  beauty 
of  the  scene,  the  growing  crops,  the  yellowing 
wheat,  the  black-green  corn,  the  fertile  meadows 
swathed  in  June  sunshine,  the  graceful  shrubbery 
and  big  forest  trees  through  which  the  red-tiled 
roofs  of  the  buildings  glowed,  the  pigeons  circling 
about  the  cupolas  of  the  barn.  And  not  the  least 
attractive  feature  of  the  picture,  although  he  was 
unconscious  of  it,  was  the  young  artist  himself, 
astride  a  graceful  black  horse,  in  relief  against  a 
background  of  wooded  border  of  the  bluff  above 
the  clear  gurgling  Winnowoc.  Eugene  looked  well 
on  horseback,  although  he  was  no  lover  of  horses, 
and  preferred  the  steady,  sure  mounts  to  the  spir 
ited  ones. 

"I  wonder  if  Jerry's  big  estate  can  be  as  well 
appointed  as  this.  I  wish  she  were  here  with  me 
now."  The  rider  fell  to  dreaming  of  Jerry,  trying 
to  put  her  in  a  picture  of  this  "Eden"  six  times 
enlarged. 

At  this  same  hour  Jerry  Swaim  was  sitting  in 
Junius  Brutus  Ponk's  gray  runabout  under  the 
shade  of  the  low  oak-grove,  gazing  with  burning 
eyes  at  her  own  kingdom  built  out  of  Kansas  sand. 

Mrs.  Darby  had  hot  coffee  and  cold  chicken  and 
cherry  preserves  and  cake  with  blackberry  wine 

156 


all  daintily  served  for  a  hungry  man  to  enjoy  after 
a  long  three  hours  on  horseback  in  the  sunshine. 
The  rose-arbor  was  odorous  with  perfume  from 
the  sweet-peas,  clinging  to  the  trellis  that  ran  be 
tween  the  side  lawn  and  the  grape-arbor. 

What  took  place  in  that  council  had  its  results 
in  the  letter  that  Eugene  Wellington  wrote  that 
night  to  Jerry  Swaim.  He  did  not  mail  it  for 
several  days,  and  when  he  went  to  his  tasks  on 
the  morning  after  his  fingers  had  let  go  of  it  at  the 
lip  of  the  iron  mail-box,  the  artist  in  him  said 
things  to  him  that  to  the  day  of  his  death  he  would 
never  quite  forget. 

Late  one  afternoon,  a  fortnight  after  the  day 
of  Jerry's  visit  to  her  claim,  Ponk,  of  the  Commer 
cial  Hotel  and  Garage,  slipped  into  the  office  of 
the  Macpherson  Mortgage  Company. 

"York,  what  happens  to  folks  that  tends  to 
other  folks's  affairs?"  he  asked,  as  he  spread  his 
short  proportions  over  a  chair  beside  York's  desk. 

"Sometimes  they  get  the  gratitude  of  posterity. 
More  generally  their  portion  is  present  contempt 
and  future  obscurity.  Are  you  in  line  for  promo 
tion  on  that,  Ponk?"  York  replied. 

"I'm  'bout  ready  to  take  chances,"  Ponk  said, 
with  a  good-natured  grin. 

"All  right.  Am  I  involved  in  your  scheme  of 
things?"  York  inquired. 

"You  bet  you  are,"  Ponk  assured  him.    "And, 

157 


THE   RECLAIMERS 

to  be  brief,  knowin'  how  valuable  your  time  is 
for  gougin'  mortgages  out  of  unsuspectin*  vic 
tims—" 

"Well,  we  haven't  foreclosed  on  the  Commer 
cial  Hotel  and  Garage  yet,"  York  interrupted. 

"No,  but  you're  likely  to  the  minute  my 
back's  turned.  That's  why  I  have  to  go  facin' 
south  all  the  time.  But  to  get  to  real  business 
now,  York — 

"I  wish  you  would,"  York  declared. 

His  caller  paid  no  heed  to  the  thrust,  and  con 
tinued,  seriously,  "I  can't  get  some  things  off  my 
mind,  and  I've  got  to  unload,  that's  all." 

"Go  ahead.  I'm  your  dumping-ground,"  York 
said,  with  a  smile. 

"That's  what  you  are,  you  son  of  a  horse-thief. 
I  mean  the  tool  of  a  grasping  bunch  of  loan  sharks 
known  as  the  Macpherson  Mortgage  Company. 
Well,  it's  that  young  lady  at  your  house." 

"I  see.  We  robbed  you  of  a  boarder,"  York 
suggested. 

"Aw,  shut  up  an'  listen,  now,  will  you?  You 
know  I'm  a  man  of  affairs  here.  Owner  and  pro 
prietor  and  man-of-all-work  at  the  Commercial 
Hotel  an'  Gurrage,  bass  soloist  in  the  Baptist 
choir,  and — by  the  removal  of  the  late  deceased 
incumbent — also  treasurer  of  the  board  of  educa 
tion  of  the  New  Eden  schools — " 

"All  of  which  has  what  to  do  with  the  young 
lady  from  Philadelphia?"  York  inquired,  blandlv. 

158 


IF   A    MAN    WENT    RIGHT    WITH    HIMSELF 

"Well,  listen.  Here's  where  tendin*  to  other 
folks's  business  comes  in.  A  good-lookin'  but  in 
experienced  young  lady  comes  out  here  from  Phila 
delphia  to  find  a  claim  left  her  by  her  deceased 
father.  Out  she  goes  to  see  said  claim,  payin'  me 
good  money  for  my  best  car — to  ride  in  state  over 
her  grand  province — of  sand.  And  there  wasn't 
much  change  but  a  pearl-handle  knife  an'  a  button 
hook  in  her  purse  when  she  pays  for  the  use  of 
the  car,  even  when  I  cut  down  half  a  buck  on  the 
regular  hire.  Her  kind  don't  know  rightly  how 
to  save  money  till  they  'ain't  none  to  save.  But 
the  look  in  her  eyes  when  she  come  steamin'  in 
from  that  jaunt  was  more  'n  I  could  stand.  York, 
she  ain't  the  first  Easterner  to  be  fooled  by  the 
promise  of  the  West.  Not  the  real  West,  you 
understand,  but  the  sham  face  o'  things  put  up 
back  East.  An'  here  she  be  in  our  midst.  Every 
day  she  goes  by  after  the  mail  gets  in,  looking 
like  one  of  them  blue  pigeons  with  all  the  colors 
of  a  opal  on  their  necks,  and  every  day  she  goe* 
back  with  her  face  white  around  the  mouth.  She's 
walkin'  on  red  -  hot  plowshares  and  never 
squealin'."  Ponk  paused,  while  York  sat  combing 
his  fingers  through  his  hair  in  silence. 

"You  know  I'm  some  force  on  the  school  board, 
if  I  don't  know  much.  I  ain't  there  to  teach  any 
body  anything,  but  to  see  that  such  ignoramuses 
as  me  ain't  put  up  to  teach  children.  Now  we  are 
shy  one  teacher  in  the  high-school  by  the  sudden 

159 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

resignation  of  the  mathematics  professor  to  take  on 
underwritin'  of  life  insurance  in  the  city.  Do  you 
suppose  she'd  do  it?  Would  it  help  any  if  we  of 
fered  the  place  to  Miss  Swaim?  It  might  help  to 
keep  her  in  this  town." 

"Ponk,  your  heart's  all  right,"  York  said, 
warmly.  "It  would  help,  I'm  sure,  if  the  lady  is 
to  stay  here,  for  she  is  without  means.  She  might 
or  might  not  be  willing  to  consider  this  opening. 
I  can't  forecast  women.  But,  Ponk,  could  she 
teach  mathematics?  You  know  she  was  probably 
fashionably  finished — never  educated — in  some 
higher  school.  If  it  were  embroidery,  or  something 
like  that,  it  might  be  all  right." 

"Oh,  you  trust  me  to  judge  a  few  things,  even 
if  I'm  not  up  on  the  gentle  art  of  foreclosin'  mort 
gages  and  such.  I  know  that  girl  could  teach 
mathematics.  Anybody  who  can  run  a  car  like 
she  can  with  as  true  a  eye  for  curves  an'  distances, 
and  a  head  for  bossin'  a  machine  that  runs  by 
engine  power,  couldn't  help  but  teach  algebry  and 
geometry  just  true  as  a  right  angle.  But  mebby," 
and  Ponk's  countenance  fell — "mebby  she'd  not 
want  to,  nor  thank  me  noways,  nor  you,  neither, 
for  interfering  in  the  matter.  But  I  just  thought 
I'd  offer  you  the  chance  to  mebby  help  her  get  on 
her  feet.  I  don't  know,  though.  I'd  hate  to  lose 
her  good-will.  I  just  couldn't  stand  it." 

"Ponk,  I  appreciate  your  motive,"  York  said, 
feelingly.  "I  will  take  this  up  as  soon  as  I  can 

160 


IF   A    MAN    WENT    RIGHT    WITH    HIMSELF 

with  Miss  Swaim.  You  see,  she's  our  guest  and  I 
can't  very  gracefully  suggest  that  she  seek  em 
ployment.  And,  to  be  frank  with  you,  my  sister 
has  become  very  fond  of  her — Laura  misses  a  good 
many  good  things  on  account  of  her  lameness — 
and  we  would  like  to  keep  her  our  guest  indefi 
nitely;  but  we  can't  do  that,  of  course." 

"I  don't  wonder  your  sister  wants  her.  Of 
course,  you  don't  carenothin''about  it  yourself.  An' 
I'll  have  the  board  hold  the  place  awhile  to  see 
what  '11  happen.  I  must  soar  back  home  now." 
And  the  little  man  left  the  office. 

"Sound  to  the  core,  if  he  does  strut  when  stran 
gers  come  to  town.  Especially  ladies.  That's  the 
only  way  some  little  men  have  of  attracting  atten 
tion  to  themselves.  A  kind-hearted  man  as  ever 
came  up  the  Sage  Brush,"  York  commented,  as 
he  watched  his  caller  crossing  the  street  to  the 
hotel. 

That  evening  Jerry  Swaim  sat  alone  on  the 
porch  of  the  Macpherson  home,  where  shafts  of 
silvery  moonlight  fell  through  the  honeysuckle 
vines.  What  York  Macpherson  would  have  called 
a  fight  between  Jim  Swaim's  chin  and  Lesa's  eyes 
was  going  on  in  Jerry's  soul  this  evening.  Since 
her  visit  to  her  claim  life  had  suddenly  become  a 
maze  of  perplexities.  She  had  never  before  known 
a  care  that  could  not  have  been  lifted  from  her  by 
others,  except  the  one  problem  of  leaving  Phila 
delphia,  and  the  solution  of  that  might  have  been 

161 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

the  prank  of  a  headstrong  child,  prompted  by  self- 
will  and  love  of  adventure,  rather  than  by  the 
grave  decision  of  well-poised  judgment.  Hereto 
fore  in  all  her  ventures  a  safe  harbor  had  been  near 
to  shelter  her.  Now  she  was  among  the  breakers 
and  the  storm  was  on. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  memory  her  purse  was 
light  and  there  was  no  visible  source  from  which 
to  refill  it.  She  was  too  well-bred  to  tax  the  hos 
pitality  of  the  Macpherson  home,  where  she  was 
made  to  feel  herself  so  welcome.  To  return  to 
Philadelphia  meant  to  write  and  ask  for  the  ex 
penses  of  transportation.  She  had  burned  too 
many  bridges  behind  her  to  meet  the  humility  of 
such  a  request  just  yet;  for  that  meant  the  sub 
jection  of  her  whole  future  to  Jerusha  Darby's 
will,  and  against  such  subjection  Jerry's  spirit  re 
belled  mightily. 

Every  day  for  two  weeks  the  girl  had  gone  to  the 
post-office  with  an  eager,  expectant  face.  Every 
evening  she  had  asked  York  Macpherson  if  he  had 
heard  anything  from  Philadelphia  since  her  com 
ing,  the  pretended  indifference  in  her  tone  hardly 
concealing  the  longing  behind  the  query.  But  not 
a  line  from  the  East  had  come  to  New  Eden  for 
her. 

On  the  afternoon  of  this  day  the  postmaster  had 
hurried  through  the  letters  because  he,  too,  had 
caught  the  meaning  of  the  hunger  in  the  earnest 
eyes  watching  him  through  the  little  window 

162 


IF    A    MAN    WENT    RIGHT    WITH    HIMSELF 

among  the  letter-boxes.  The  mail  was  heavy  to 
day,  but  the  distributer  paused  with  one  letter, 
long  enough  to  look  at  it  carefully,  and  then, 
leaving  his  work  half  finished,  he  hurried  to  the 
window. 

"Here's  something  for  you.  Aren't  you  Miss 
Swaim?"  he  inquired,  courteously,  as  he  pushed 
the  letter  toward  Jerry's  waiting  hand. 

He  had  lived  in  Kansas  since  the  passage  of  the 
homestead  law.  He  knew  the  mark  of  homesick 
ness  on  the  face  of  a  late  arrival.  Something  in 
the  cultivation  of  a  new  land  puts  a  gentler  culture 
into  the  soul.  Out  of  the  common  heartache,  the 
common  sacrifice,  the  common  need,  have  grown 
the  open-hearted,  keen-sighted,  fine-fibered  folk 
of  the  big  and  generous  Middle  West,  the  very 
heart  of  which,  to  the  Kansan,  is  Kansas. 

The  postmaster  turned  quickly  back  to  his  task. 
He  did  not  see  the  girl's  face;  he  only  felt  that 
she  walked  away  on  air. 

At  York  Macpherson's  office  she  hesitated  a 
moment,  then  hurried  inside.  York  was  in  his 
private  room,  but  the  door  to  it  stood  open,  and 
Jerry  caught  sight  of  a  woman  within. 

"I  beg  your  pardozi."  She  blushed  confusedly. 
"I  don't  want  to  intrude;  I  only  wanted  to  stop 
long  enough  to  read  a  letter  from  home." 

Jerry's  genuine  embarrassment  was  very  pretty 
and  appealing,  but  York  was  shrewd  enough  to 
know  that  it  came  from  the  letter  in  her  hand,  not 

163 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

from  any  connection  with  his  office  or  its  occu 
pants.  Mrs.  Stellar  Bahrr,  however,  who  hap 
pened  to  be  the  woman  in  the  inner  room,  did 
not  see  the  incident  with  York's  eyes. 

"Just  come  in  here,  Miss  Swaim,  and  make 
yourself  at  home,"  York  insisted.  "Come,  Mrs. 
Bahrr,  we  can  finish  our  talk  for  to-day  in  one 
place  as  well  as  another.  My  sister  and  I  are  go 
ing  across  the  river  to  spend  the  evening,  so  it 
will  be  late  to-morrow  before  I  can  get  those 
papers  ready  for  you." 

Mrs.  Bahrr  rose  reluctantly,  hooking  her  sharp 
eyes  into  the  girl  as  she  passed  out.  What  she 
noted  was  a  very  white  face  where  the  color  of 
the  cheeks  seemed  burned  in,  and  big,  shining 
eyes.  Of  course  the  broad-brimmed  chiffon  hat 
with  beaded  medallions,  the  beaded  parasol  to 
match,  and  the  beaded  hand-bag  of  the  same  hues 
did  not  escape  her  eyes,  especially  the  pretty  hand 
bag. 

York  closed  the  door  behind  the  two,  leaving 
Jerry  in  quiet  possession  of  the  inner  room,  while 
he  seated  Mrs.  Bahrr  in  the  outer  office  and  en 
gaged  in  the  business  that  had  brought  her  to  him. 
He  knew  that  she  would  be  torn  between  two  de 
sires:  one  to  hurry  through  and  leave  the  office, 
and  so  be  able  to  start  a  story  of  leaving  Jerry 
and  himself  in  a  questionable  situation;  the  other 
to  stay  and  see  the  fair  caller  as  she  came  out,  and 
to  learn,  if  possible,  why  she  had  come,  and  to 

164 


IF    A    MAN    WENT    RIGHT    WITH    HIMSELF 

enjoy  her  confusion  in  finding  a  woman  still  en 
gaging  York's  time.  Either  thing  would  be  worth 
while  to  Mrs.  Bahrr,  and  while  she  hesitated  York 
decided  for  her. 

"I'll  keep  her  with  me,  the  old  Long  Tongue. 
Yea,  she  shall  roost  here  in  my  coop  till  the  little 
girl  gets  clear  to  'Castle  Cluny.'  She  sha'n't  run 
off  and  overtake  her  prey  and  then  cackle  over  it 
later.  Jerry  has  committed  the  unpardonable  sin 
of  being  young  and  pretty  and  good;  the  Big 
Dipper  will  make  her  pay  for  the  personal 
insult." 

In  the  midst  of  their  business  conversation 
Jerry  Swaim  came  from  the  inner  room,  and  with 
a  half -audible  word  of  thanks  left  the  office.  Mrs. 
Bahrr's  back  was  toward  the  door,  and,  although 
she  turned  with  a  catlike  quickness,  she  failed  to 
see  anything  worth  while  except  to  get  another 
good  look  at  the  hand-bag.  Something  told  York 
Macpherson  that  the  message  in  her  letter  held  a 
tragical  meaning  for  the  fair-faced  girl  who  had 
waited  so  eagerly  for  its  coming. 

At  dinner  that  evening  York  was  at  his  best. 

"I  must  make  our  girl  keep  an  appetite,"  he 
argued.  "Nothing  matters  if  a  dinner  still  carries 
an  appeal.  By  George!  I've  got  to  do  my  best, 
or  I'll  lose  my  own  taste  for  what  Laura  can  set 
up  if  I  don't  look  out.  We  are  all  getting  thin 
except  Laura.  Even  Ponk  is  losing  his  strut  a 
bit.  And  why?  Oh,  confound  it!  there  is  plenty 

165 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

of  time  to  ask  questions  in  July  and  August  when 
the  town  has  its  dull  season." 

So  York  came  to  dinner  in  one  of  his  rarest 
moods,  a  host  to  make  one's  worries  flee  away. 

Jerry  had  reread  her  letter  in  the  seclusion  of 
her  room  at  "Castle  Cluny."  It  did  not  need  a 
third  reading,  for  every  word  seemed  graven  on 
the  reader's  brain.  In  carefully  typewritten  form, 
with  only  the  signature  in  the  writer's  own  hand, 
it  ran: 

MY  ALWAYS  DEAR  JERRY, — I  should  have  written  you  days 
ago,  but  I  did  not  get  back  to  "Eden"  until  you  had  been 
gone  a  week.  We  are  all  so  eager  to  hear  how  you  are,  and 
to  know  about  the  Swaim  estate  which  you  went  to  find. 
But  we  are  a  hundred  times  more  eager  to  see  your  face  here 
again.  I  wish  you  were  here  to-night,  for  I  have  been  in  the 
depths  of  doubt  and  indecision,  from  which  your  presence 
would  have  lifted  me.  I  hope  I  have  done  the  right  thing, 
now  it  is  done,  and  I'll  wait  to  hear  from  you  more  eagerly 
than  I  ever  waited  for  a  letter  before.  Yet  I  feel  sure  you 
will  approve  of  my  course  after  you  get  over  your  surprise 
and  have  taken  time  to  think  carefully. 

I  had  a  long  heart-to-heart  talk  with  Aunt  Jerry  to-day. 
Don't  smile  and  say  a  purse-to-purse  talk.  Full  purses  don't 
talk  to  empty  ones.  They  speak  a  different  language.  But 
this  to-day  was  a  real  confidence  game  as  you  might  say.  I 
received  the  confidence  if  I  didn't  die  as  game  as  you  would 
wish  me  to. 

To  be  plain,  little  cousin  mine,  I  want  you  dreadfully  to 
come  back,  so  much  so  that  I  have  decided  to  give  up  painting 
for  the  present  and  take  a  clerkship  in  the  bank  with  Uncle 
Cornie's  partners.  I  can  see  your  eyes  open  wide  with  sur 
prise  and  disappointment  when  I  tell  you  that  Aunt  Jerry 
has  really  converted  me  to  her  way  of  thinking.  My  hours 
are  easy  and  the  pay  is  good.  Not  so  much  as  I  had  hoped 

166 


IF    A    MAN    WENT    RIGHT    WITH    HIMSELF 

to  have  some  day  from  my  brush  and  may  have  yet,  if  this 
work  doesn't  make  me  fat  and  lazy,  for  there  is  really  very 
little  responsibility  about  it,  just  a  decent  accuracy.  This 
makes  so  many  things  possible,  you  see,  and  then  I  have  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  I  am  doing  a  service  for  Aunt  Jerry — 
and,  to  be  explicit — to  put  myself  where  I  shall  not  have  to 
worry  over  things  when  you  come  home.  So  I'm  happy  now. 
And  when  you  get  here  I  shall  begin  to  live  again.  I  seem  to  be 
staying  here  now.  Staying  and  waiting  for  something.  No 
body  really  lives  at  "Eden"  without  little  Jerry  to  keep  us 
all  alive  and  keyed  up.  Nobody  to  take  the  big  car  over  the 
bluff  road,  beautiful  as  it  is — for  you  know  I'm  too  big  a 
coward  to  drive  it  and  to  do  a  hundred  things  I'd  do  if  you 
were  here  to  brace  me  up. 

Write  me  at  once,  little  cousin,  and  say  you  will  come  home 
just  as  soon  as  you  have  seen  all  of  that  God-forsaken  country 
you  care  to  look  at.  And  meantime  I'll  write  as  often  as  you 
want  me  to.  I  think  of  you  every  day  and  remember  you  in 
my  prayers  every  night.  You  remember  I  told  you  I  couldn't 
pray  out  in  Kansas.  May  the  Lord  be  good  to  you  and  make 
you  love  Him  more  than  you  think  you  do  now,  and  bring 
you  safe  and  soon  to  our  beautiful  "Eden." 

Yours, 

EUGENE. 

The  sands  of  the  blowout  on  Jerry's  claim  seared 
not  more  hotly  her  fresh  young  hopes  of  prosperity, 
through  her  own  effort  and  control,  than  this 
sudden  change  from  the  artist,  with  his  dreams  of 
beauty  and  power,  to  the  man  of  easy  clerical 
duty  with  a  good  salary  and  small  responsibility. 
Of  course  Aunt  Jerry  had  been  back  of  it  all,  but 
so  would  Aunt  Jerry  have  been  back  of  her — if 
she  had  given  up. 

Jerry  sat  for  a  long  time  staring  at  the  missive 
where  it  had  fallen  on  the  floor,  the  typewritten 

167 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

of  time  to  ask  questions  in  July  and  August  when 
the  town  has  its  dull  season." 

So  York  came  to  dinner  in  one  of  his  rarest 
moods,  a  host  to  make  one's  worries  flee  away. 

Jerry  had  reread  her  letter  in  the  seclusion  of 
her  room  at  "Castle  Cluny."  It  did  not  need  a 
third  reading,  for  every  word  seemed  graven  on 
the  reader's  brain.  In  carefully  typewritten  form, 
with  only  the  signature  in  the  writer's  own  hand, 
it  ran: 

MY  ALWAYS  DEAR  JERRY, — I  should  have  written  you  days 
ago,  but  I  did  not  get  back  to  "Eden"  until  you  had  been 
gone  a  week.  We  are  all  so  eager  to  hear  how  you  are,  and 
to  know  about  the  Swaim  estate  which  you  went  to  find. 
But  we  are  a  hundred  times  more  eager  to  see  your  face  here 
again.  I  wish  you  were  here  to-night,  for  I  have  been  in  the 
depths  of  doubt  and  indecision,  from  which  your  presence 
would  have  lifted  me.  I  hope  I  have  done  the  right  thing, 
now  it  is  done,  and  I'll  wait  to  hear  from  you  more  eagerly 
than  I  ever  waited  for  a  letter  before.  Yet  I  feel  sure  you 
will  approve  of  my  course  after  you  get  over  your  surprise 
and  have  taken  time  to  think  carefully. 

I  had  a  long  heart-to-heart  talk  with  Aunt  Jerry  to-day. 
Don't  smile  and  say  a  purse-to-purse  talk.  Full  purses  don't 
talk  to  empty  ones.  They  speak  a  different  language.  But 
this  to-day  was  a  real  confidence  game  as  you  might  say.  I 
received  the  confidence  if  I  didn't  die  as  game  as  you  would 
wish  me  to. 

To  be  plain,  little  cousin  mine,  I  want  you  dreadfully  to 
come  back,  so  much  so  that  I  have  decided  to  give  up  painting 
for  the  present  and  take  a  clerkship  in  the  bank  with  Uncle 
Cornie's  partners.  I  can  see  your  eyes  open  wide  with  sur 
prise  and  disappointment  when  I  tell  you  that  Aunt  Jerry 
has  really  converted  me  to  her  way  of  thinking.  My  hours 
are  easy  and  the  pay  is  good.  Not  so  much  as  I  had  hoped 

166 


IF    A    MAN    WENT    RIGHT    WITH    HIMSELF 

to  have  some  day  from  my  brush  and  may  have  yet,  if  this 
work  doesn't  make  me  fat  and  lazy,  for  there  is  really  very 
little  responsibility  about  it,  just  a  decent  accuracy.  This 
makes  so  many  things  possible,  you  see,  and  then  I  have  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  I  am  doing  a  service  for  Aunt  Jerry — 
and,  to  be  explicit — to  put  myself  where  I  shall  not  have  to 
worry  over  things  when  you  come  home.  So  I'm  happy  now. 
And  when  you  get  here  I  shall  begin  to  live  again.  I  seem  to  be 
staying  here  now.  Staying  and  waiting  for  something.  No 
body  really  lives  at  "Eden"  without  little  Jerry  to  keep  us 
all  alive  and  keyed  up.  Nobody  to  take  the  big  car  over  the 
bluff  road,  beautiful  as  it  is — for  you  know  I'm  too  big  a 
coward  to  drive  it  and  to  do  a  hundred  things  I'd  do  if  you 
were  here  to  brace  me  up. 

Write  me  at  once,  little  cousin,  and  say  you  will  come  home 
just  as  soon  as  you  have  seen  all  of  that  God-forsaken  country 
you  care  to  look  at.  And  meantime  I'll  write  as  often  as  you 
want  me  to.  I  think  of  you  every  day  and  remember  you  in 
my  prayers  every  night.  You  remember  I  told  you  I  couldn't 
pray  out  in  Kansas.  May  the  Lord  be  good  to  you  and  make 
you  love  Him  more  than  you  think  you  do  now,  and  bring 
you  safe  and  soon  to  our  beautiful  "Eden." 

Yours, 

EUGENE. 

The  sands  of  the  blowout  on  Jerry's  claim  seared 
not  more  hotly  her  fresh  young  hopes  of  prosperity, 
through  her  own  effort  and  control,  than  this 
sudden  change  from  the  artist,  with  his  dreams  of 
beauty  and  power,  to  the  man  of  easy  clerical 
duty  with  a  good  salary  and  small  responsibility. 
Of  course  Aunt  Jerry  had  been  back  of  it  all,  but 
so  would  Aunt  Jerry  have  been  back  of  her — if 
she  had  given  up. 

Jerry  sat  for  a  long  time  staring  at  the  missive 
where  it  had  fallen  on  the  floor,  the  typewritten 

167 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"But  I  must  give  you  up  pretty  soon."  Jerry 
spoke  earnestly. 

"Why  'must'?  Has  the  East  too  strong  a  hold 
for  the  West  to  break?"  York  asked. 

"I  came  out  here  because  I  believed  my  land 
would  support  me,  and  I  had  all  sorts  of  foolish 
dreams  of  what  I  might  find  here  that  would  be 
new  and  romantic."  Jerry's  eyes  had  a  far-away 
look  in  them  as  she  recalled  the  unrealized  picture 
of  her  prairie  domain. 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question  yet," 
York  reminded  her. 

Jerry  dropped  her  eyes,  the  bloom  deepened  on 
her  fair  cheek,  and  she  clasped  her  small  hands  to 
gether.  For  a  long  time  no  word  was  spoken. 

"I  didn't  answer  your  question.  I  am  not 
going  back  to  Philadelphia.  There  must  be 
something  else  besides  land  in  the  West,"  Jerry 
said,  at  last. 

"Yes,  we  are  here.  Do  stay  right  here  with 
us,"  Laura  Macpherson  urged,  warmly. 

Every  day  the  companionship  of  this  girl  had 
grown  upon  her,  for  that  was  Jerry's  gift.  But  to 
the  eager  invitation  of  her  hostess  the  girl  only 
shook  her  head. 

York  Macpherson  sat  combing  his  fingers 
through  the  heavy  brown  waves  of  his  hair,  a 
habit  of  his  when  he  was  thinking  deeply.  But  if 
a  vision  of  what  might  be  came  to  him  unbidden 

now,  a  vision  that  had  come  unbidden  many  times 

170 


IF    A   MAN    WENT    RIGHT    WITH    HIMSELF 

in  the  last  two  weeks,  making  sweeter  the  smile 
that  won  men  to  him,  he  put  it  resolutely  away 
from  him  for  the  time.  He  must  help  this  girl  to 
help  herself.  Romance  belonged  to  other  men. 
He  was  not  of  the  right  mold  for  that — not  now, 
at  least. 

"I  heard  to-day  that  there  is  need  of  a  mathe 
matics  teacher  in  our  high-school  for  next  year. 
It  pays  eighty  dollars  a  month,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  York,"  Laura  protested,  earnestly.  "You 
know  Jerry  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  teach 
ing.  And  I  really  must  have  her  here.  You  are 
away  so  much,  you  know  you  are." 

But  her  brother  only  smiled.  When  York 
Macpherson  frowned  he  might  be  giving  in,  but 
his  sister  knew  that  his  smile  meant  absolute 
resistance. 

"Ponk  was  talking  to  me  to-day.  He  is  the 
treasurer  of  the  school  board  now,  and  he  men 
tioned  the  vacancy.  He  was  casting  about  for 
some  one  fitted  to  teach  mathematics.  Even 
though  his  mind  runs  more  on  his  garage  than  on 
education,  he  has  a  deep  interest  in  the  schools. 
He  admires  your  ability  to  manage  a  car  so  much 
it  occurred  to  him  that  you  might  consider  this 
position.  Fine  course  of  reasoning,  but  he  is  sure 
of  his  ground." 

"Let  me  think  it  over,"  Jerry  said,  slowly. 

"And  then  forget  it,"  Laura  suggested.  "York 
and  I  are  invited  out  this  evening.  Won't  you 

171 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

come  with  us?  It  is  just  a  little  informal  doings 
across  the  river." 

"I  would  rather  be  alone  to-night,"  her  guest 
replied. 

So  the  Macphersons  let  her  have  her  way. 


IX 

IF  A   WOMAN   WENT   RIGHT   WITH   HERSELF 


A^D  thus  it  happened  that  Jerry  Swaim  was 
alone  this  evening  behind  the  honeysuckle- 
vines,  with  leaf  shadow  and  moonbeams  falling 
caressingly  on  her  filmy  white  gown  and  golden 
hair.  For  a  long  time  she  sat  still.  Once  she  said, 
half  aloud,  unconscious  that  she  was  speaking  at 
all: 

"So  Eugene  Wellington  has  given  up  his  art 
for  an  easy  berth  in  the  Darby  bank.  He  hadn't 
the  courage  to  resist  the  temptation,  though  it 
made  him  a  tool  instead  of  a  master  of  tools.  And 
we  promised  each  other  we  would  each  make  our 
own  way,  independent  of  Aunt  Jerry's  money. 
Maybe  if  I  had  been  there  things  would  have  been 
different." 

She  gripped  her  hands  in  her  quick,  nervous 
way,  as  a  homesick  longing  swept  her  soul.  She 
was  searching  a  way  out  for  Eugene,  a  cause  for 
putting  all  the  blame  on  Aunt  Jerry. 

"I  wish  I  had  gone  with  the  Macphersons.  I 
could  have  forgotten,  for  a  while  at  least." 

173 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

A  light  step  inside  the  house  caught  her  ear. 

"Maybe  Laura  has  come  home,"  she  thought, 
too  absorbed  in  herself  to  ask  why  Laura  should 
have  chosen  the  side  door  when  she  knew  that 
Jerry  was  alone  on  the  front  porch. 

Again  she  heard  a  movement  just  inside  the 
open  door;  then  a  step  on  the  threshold;  and  then 
a  tall,  thin  woman  walked  out  of  the  house  and 
half-way  across  the  wide  porch  before  she  caught 
sight  of  Jerry  in  an  easy-chair  behind  the  honey 
suckle-vines.  The  intruder  paused  a  second,  star 
ing  at  the  corner  where  the  girl  sat  motionless. 
From  her  childhood  Jerry  had  possessed  unusual 
physical  courage.  To-night  it  was  curiosity, 
rather  than  fright,  that  prompted  her  to  keep 
still  while  the  strange  woman's  eyes  were  upon 
her.  Evidently  the  intruder  was  more  surprised 
than  herself,  and  Jerry  let  her  make  the  first 
move  in  the  game.  The  woman  was  angular, 
with  swift  but  ungraceful  motion.  For  a  long 
time,  as  such  seconds  go,  she  stared  at  the  white 
figure  hidden  by  the  shadows  of  the  vines.  Then 
with  a  quick  stride  she  thrust  herself  before  the 
girl  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"Well,  well!    This  is  Miss  Swim,  ain't  it?" 

"As  well  that  as  anything.  I  can't  land  any 
where,"  Jerry  thought. 

"I'm  Mrs.  Stellar  Bahrr,  a  good  friend  of  Laury 
Macpherson  as  she's  got  in  this  town,  unless  it's* 
you.  I  seen  you  in  York's  office  this  afternoon! 

174 


IF  A  WOMAN  WENT  RIGHT  WITH  HERSELF 

I  was  sorry  I  intruded  on  you  two  when  you  come 
purpose  to  see  him  in  his  private  office.  When 
girls  wants  to  see  him  that  way  they  don't  want 
nobody,  'specially  women,  around." 

Mrs.  Bahrr  paused  to  giggle  and  to  give  Jerry 
time  to  parry  her  thrust,  meanwhile  pinning  her 
through  with  the  sharp  points  of  her  eyes  that 
fairly  gleamed  in  the  shadow-checkered  moonlight 
of  the  porch.  Jerry  was  not  accustomed  to  being 
accountable  to  anybody  for  what  she  chose  to  do, 
nor  did  she  know  that  every  man  in  New  Eden, 
except  York  Macpherson  and  Junius  Brutus  Ponk 
— and  every  woman,  without  exception — really 
feared  Stella  Bahrr,  knowing  that  she  would 
hesitate  at  no  kind  of  warfare  to  accomplish  her 
purpose.  It  is  generally  easier  to  be  decent  than 
to  be  courageous,  and  peace  at  any  price  may  be 
more  desired  than  nasty  word  battles.  Not  know 
ing  Stella  for  the  woman  she  was,  Jerry  had  no 
mind  to  consider  her  at  all,  so  she  waited  for  her 
caller  to  proceed  or  to  leave  her. 

"You  must  excuse  me  if  I  seem  to  be  interfering 
in  your  affairs.  You  are  a  stranger  here  except 
to  York  and  that  man  Ponk —  '  Stella  began, 
thrusting  her  hooks  more  viciously  into  her  catch. 

"Oh,  you  didn't  interfere,"  Jerry  interrupted 
her  indifferently,  and  then  paused. 

Mrs.  Bahrr  caught  her  breath.  The  girl  was 
sinfully  pretty  and  attractive,  her  beauty  and 
grace  in  themselves  alone  railing  out  at  the  older 

175 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

woman's  ugly  spirit  of  envy.  And  she  should  be 
tender,  with  feeling  to  be  lacerated  for  these  gifts 
of  nature.  Instead,  she  was  firm  and  hard,  with 
no  vulnerable  spot  for  a  poisoned  shaft. 

"I'm  sure  you  had  a  right  to  go  into  a  man's 
private  office.  It's  everybody's  right,  of  course," 
she  began,  with  that  faint  sneering  tone  of  hers  that 
carried  a  threat  of  what  might  follow. 

"Yes,  but  a  little  discourteous  in  me  to  drive 
you  out.  That  was  Mr.  Macpherson's  fault,  not 
mine,"  Jerry  broke  in,  easily. 

"Maybe  that's  her  grievance.  I'll  be  decent 
about  it,"  the  girl  was  thinking. 

"I'm  awfully  bored  right  now."  The  wind 
shifted  quickly.  "I  run  up  to  see  Laury  a  minute. 
Just  slipped  in  the  side-stoop  way  to  save  troublin' 
you  an'  York  out  here.  I  knowed  Laury  wouldn't 
be  here,  an',  would  you  believe  it?  I  clar  forgot 
they  was  gone  out,  an'  I  seen  you  all  leavin',  too— 
I  mean  them,  of  course." 

The  threatening  tone  could  not  be  reproduced. 
It  carried,  however,  a  most  uncomfortable  force 
like  a  cruel  undertow  beneath  the  seemingly  safe 
crest  of  a  wave. 

"It's  a  joke  on  me  bein'  so  stupid,  but  you  won't 
give  me  away  to  'em,  will  you?" 

"I'm  awfully  bored,  too,"  Jerry  thought. 

"You  say  you  won't  tell  'em  at  all  that  I  come?" 
Mrs.  Bahrr  insisted. 

"Not  if  you  say  so,"  Jerry  replied,  with  a  smile. 

176 


IF  A  WOMAN  WENT  RIGHT  WITH  HERSELF 

"I'm  an  awfully  good  friend  of  Laury's.  She's 
a  poor  cripple,  dependent  on  her  brother  for  every 
thing,  an'  if  he  marries,  as  he's  bound  to  do,  I'd 
hate  to  see  her  turned  out  of  here.  This  house  is 
just  Laury  through  and  through.  Don't  you  think 
so?  'Course,  though,  if  York  marries  again — 
Stellar  Bahrr  stopped  meditatively.  "All  the 
women  in  the  Sage  Brush  Valley's  just  crazy 
about  York.  He's  some  flirt,  but  everybody  thought 
he'd  settled  his  mind  once  sure.  But  I  guess  he 
flared  up  again,  from  what  they  say.  She's  too 
fur  away  from  town  a'most.  Them  that's  further- 
est  away  don't  have  a  chance  like  them  that's 
nearest  him.  But  it  may  be  all  just  gossip.  There 
was  a  lot  of  talk  about  him  an'  a  girl  down  the 
river  that's  got  a  crippled  brother — Paul  Ekblad's 
his  name;  hers  is  Thelmy — an'  some  considerable 
about  one  of  the  Poser  girls  where  he  was  up  the 
Sage  Brush  to  this  week.  The  married  one  now, 
I  think,  an'  a  bouncin'  big  baby,  but  what  do  you 
care  for  all  that?" 

"Nothing,"  Jerry  replied,  innocently. 

The  steel  hooks  turned  slowly  to  lacerate  deeper. 

"Well,  I  must  be  goin'.  You  give  me  your  word 
you  wouldn't  cheep  about  my  forgettin'  an'  run- 
nin'  in  here.  York's  such  a  torment,  I'd  never 
hear  the  last  of  it.  I  know  you  are  a  honorable 
one  with  your  promises,  an'  I  like  that  kind.  I'm 
glad  I  met  you.  An'  I'll  not  say  a  word,  neither, 
'bout  your  goin'  to  see  York  in  his  private  office. 

177 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

It's  a  bargain  'tween  us  two.  Laury's  an  awfully 
good  friend  of  yours  an'  she'll  keep  you  here  a  good 
long  while,  she's  that  hosp^able." 

The  steel  hooks  tore  their  way  out,  and  the 
woman  rose  and  strode  quickly  away.  In  a  min 
ute  she  had  literally  dropped  from  view  in  the 
shaded  slope  beyond  the  driveway. 

"I  might  as  well  punch  a  stick  in  water  or  stick 
a  pin  in  old  Granddad  Poser's  tombstone  out  in 
the  cimetery,  an'  expect  to  find  a  hole  left,  as  to 
do  anything  with  that  pink-an'-white-an'-gold  crit 
ter!"  she  exclaimed,  viciously,  as  she  disappeared 
in  the  shadows.  "I'm  afraider  of  her  than  I 
would  be  of  a  real  mad-cat,  but  she  can't  scare  me!" 

Out  on  the  lawn  the  moon  just  then  seemed  to 
cast  a  weird  gleam  of  light,  and  to  veil  rather 
than  reveal  the  long  street  beyond  it.  For  a  min 
ute  after  the  passing  of  her  uninvited  caller  Jerry 
Swaim  was  filled  with  an  unaccountable  fright. 
Then  her  pulse  beat  calmly  again  and  she  smiled 
at  herself. 

"I  don't  seem  to  fear  these  Kansas  men — Mr. 
Ponk,  for  example,  nor  that  Teddy-bear  creature 
down  by  the  deep  hole  in  the  Sage  Brush.  But 
these  Kansas  women,  except  Laura  —  anybody 
would  except  Laura — are  so  impossible.  That 
dairy-maid  type  of  a  Thelma,  and  that  woman- 
and-baby  combination,  for  example;  and  some  of 
the  women  really  scare  me.  That  aborigine  down 
in  the  brush  by  the  river,  in  her  shabby  clothes 

178 


IF  A  WOMAN  WENT  RIGHT  WITH  HERSELF 

and  sunbonnet  eclipse;  and  now  this  'Stellar' 
comes  catfooting  out  of  the  house  and  lands  over 
yonder  in  the  shadows.  She  needn't  have  been 
bored  because  she  didn't  find  the  folks  at  home, 
and  she  needn't  frighten  me  so.  I  never  was 
afraid  of  Aunt  Jerry.  I  ought  to  be  proof  against 
anybody  else.  And  yet  maybe  I  am  in  the  way 
here,  even  if  they  drive  the  very  idea  away  from 
me.  Laura  is  good  to  me  and  her  friendliness  is 
genuine.  Little  as  I  know,  I  know  that  much. 
And  York — oh,  that  was  a  village  gossip's  tale! 
And  she  gets  me  scared — I,  whom  even  Jerusha 
Darby  never  cowed." 

The  poison  was  working,  after  all,  and  Stellar 
Bahrr's  sting  had  not  been  against  marble,  nor 
into  water.  With  the  memory  of  Jerusha  Darby, 
too,  the  burden  came  again  to  her  niece's  mind, 
only  to  be  lifted  again,  however,  in  a  few  minutes. 
Her  memory  had  run  back  to  her  day  down  the 
river  and  the  oak-grove  and  the  sand,  and  the 
young  man  whose  name  was  Joe  Thomson — Jerry 
did  not  remember  the  name — and  the  crushing 
weight  of  surprise  and  disappointment.  The  strug 
gle  to  decide  on  a  course  for  herself  immediately 
was  rising  again  within  her,  when  she  saw  a  young 
man  turn  from  the  street  and  come  up  the  walk 
toward  the  porch. 

"I  can't  have  leisure  to  settle  anything  by  my 
self,  it  seems,  even  with  the  lord  and  lady  of  the 
castle  leaving  me  in  full  seclusion  here.  One 

179 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

caller  goes  and  another  comes.  I  wonder  what  ex 
cuse  this  one  has  for  intruding.  He  is  another 
type — one  I  haven't  met  before." 

In  the  time  required  for  this  caller  to  reach  the 
porch  there  flashed  through  Jerry's  mind  all  the 
types  she  had  seen  in  the  West.  Ponk  and  Thelma 
and  fuzzy  Teddy,  the  woman-and-baby,  Laura 
and  York,  and  that  pin-eyed  gossip — and  the 
young  country  fellow  whose  land  lay  next  to  hers. 
None  of  them  concerned  her,  really,  except  these 
hospitable  friends  who  were  sheltering  her,  and, 
in  a  way,  in  an  upright,  legal,  Jim  Swaim  kind  of 
way,  the  young  man  down  the  Sage  Brush,  losing 
in  the  game  like  herself  and  helpless  like  herself. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Jerry  did  not  recognize 
in  this  caller  the  ranchman  of  the  blowout.  There 
was  nothing  of  the  clodhopper  in  this  well-dressed 
young  fellow,  although  he  was  not  exactly  a  model 
for  advertising  high-grade  tailoring. 

"Is  this  Miss  Swaim?"  he  asked,  lifting  his  hat. 
"I  am  Joe  Thomson.  You  may  remember  that 
we  met  down  in  the  blowout  two  weeks  ago." 

"I  could  hardly  forget  meeting  you.  Will  you 
sit  down?"  Jerry  offered  Joe  a  chair  with  a  cour 
tesy  very  unlike  the  blunt  manner  of  her  first 
words  to  him  a  fortnight  before. 

But  in  the  far  recesses  of  her  consciousness  all 
the  while  the  haunting,  ever-recurring  picture  of  a 
handsome  face  and  a  faultlessly  clad  form,  even  the 
face  and  form  of  a  Philadelphia  bank  clerk,  n6 

180 


IF  A  WOMAN  WENT  RIGHT  WITH  HERSELF 

artist,  made  the  reality  of  Joe  Thomson's  presence 
very  commonplace  and  uninteresting  at  that  mo 
ment,  and  her  courtesy  was  of  a  perfunctory 
sort. 

"I  hope  I  don't  intrude.  Were  you  busy?" 
Joe  asked,  something  of  the  embarrassment  of  the 
first  meeting  coming  back  with  the  question. 

"Yes,  I  was  very  busy,"  Jerry  replied,  with  a 
smile.  "Pick-up  work,  though.  I  was  just  think 
ing.  Lost  in  thought,  maybe." 

The  moonlight  can  do  so  much  for  a  pretty 
woman,  but  with  Jerry  Swaim  one  could  not  say 
whether  sunlight,  moonlight,  starlight,  or  dull  gray 
clouds  did  the  most.  For  two  weeks  the  memory 
of  her  fair  face,  as  he  recalled  it  in  the  oak  shade 
down  beside  the  blowout,  had  not  been  absent 
from  the  young  ranchman's  mind.  And  to-night 
this  dainty  girl  out  of  the  East  seemed  entrancing. 

"You  were  lost  in  thought  when  I  saw  you  be 
fore.  I  had  an  idea  that  city  girls  didn't  do  much 
thinking.  Is  it  your  settled  occupation?"  Joe  in 
quired,  with  a  smile  in  his  eyes. 

"It  is  my  only  visible  means  of  support  right 
now;  about  as  profitable,  too,  as  farming  a  blow 
out,"  Jerry  returned. 

"WTiich  reminds  me  of  my  purpose  in  thrusting 
this  call  upon  you,"  Joe  declared.  "I  didn't  real 
ize  the  situation  the  other  day — and — well,  to  be 
plain,  I  came  to  beg  your  pardon  for  my  rudeness 
in  what  I  said  about  your  claim.  I  had  no  idea 

181 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

who  you  were,  you  know,  but  that  hardly  excuses 
me  for  what  I  said." 

"It  is  very  rude  to  speak  so  slightingly  of  land 
that  behaves  as  beautifully  as  mine  does/'  Jerry 
said,  with  a  smile  that  atoned  for  the  trace  of 
sarcasm  in  her  voice. 

"It  is  very  rude  to  speak  as  slightingly  as  I 
did  of  the  former  owner.  But  you  see  I  have 
watched  that  brainless  blowout  thing  creep  along, 
season  after  season,  eating  up  my  acres — my  sole 
inheritance,  too." 

"And  you  said  you  didn't  go  mad,"  Jerry 
interposed. 

"Yes,  but  I  didn't  say  I  didn't  get  mad.  I 
have  worn  out  enough  profanity  on  that  blowout 
to  stock  the  whole  Sage  Brush  Valley." 

"But  you  aren't  to  the  last  resort,  for  you  do 
go  mad  here  then,  you  told  me.  I  wonder  you 
aren't  all  madmen  and  women  when  I  think  of 
this  country  and  remember  how  different  I  had 
imagined  it  would  be." 

"When  we  come  to  the  very  last  ditch,  we 
really  have  two  alternatives — to  go  mad  and  to 
go  back  East.  Most  folks  prefer  the  former.  But 
I  say  again,  it's  always  a  long  way  to  the  last 
ditch  out  on  the  Sage  Brush,  so  we  seldom  do 
either." 

"What  should  I  do  now?  Won't  you  tell  me? 
I'm  really  near  my  last  ditch." 

Jerty  sat  with  clasped  hands,  looking  earnestly 

182 


IF  A  WOMAN  WENT  RIGHT  WITH  HERSELF 

into  Joe's  face,  as  she  said  this.  Oh,  fair  was  she, 
this  exquisite  white-blossom  style  of  girl,  facing 
her  first  life-problem,  the  big  problem  of  living. 
Joe  Thomson  made  no  reply  to  her  question. 
What  could  this  dainty,  untrained  creature  do 
with  the  best  of  claims?  The  frank  sincerity  of 
his  silence  made  an  appeal  to  her  that  the  wisest 
advice  could  not  have  made  just  then. 

York  Macpherson  was  right  when  he  said  that 
Jim  Swaim's  child  was  a  type  of  her  own.  If 
Jerry,  through  her  mother's  nature,  was  impul 
sive  and  imaginative,  from  her  father  she  had  in 
herited  balance  and  clear  vision.  Her  young  years 
had  heretofore  made  no  call  upon  her  to  exercise 
these  qualities.  WTiat  might  have  been  turned  to 
the  frivolous  and  romantic  in  one  parent,  and  the 
hard-headed  and  grasping  in  the  other,  now  be 
came  saving  qualities  for  the  child  of  these  two. 
In  an  instant  Jerry  read  the  young  ranchman's 
character  clearly  and  foresaw  in  him  a  friend  and 
helper.  But  there  was  neither  romance  nor  self 
ishness  in  that  vision. 

"Mr.  Thomson,"  the  girl  began,  seriously,  "you 
need  not  apologize  for  what  you  could  not  help 
feeling  about  the  condition  of  my  estate  and  the 
wrong  that  has  been  done  to  you.  I  know  you  do 
not  hold  me  responsible  for  it.  Let's  forget  that 
you  thought  you  had  said  anything  unpleasant 
to  me,  for  I  want  to  ask  your  advice." 

"Mine!"  Joe  Thomson  exclaimed. 

183 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

This  sweet-faced,  soft-voiced  girl  was  walking 
straight  into  another  heart  in  the  Sage  Brush 
Valley.  Nature  had  given  her  that  heritage,  wher 
ever  she  might  go. 

"Yes,  your  advice,  please."  Jerry  went  on. 
"You  have  watched  that  sand  spreading  north 
ward  over  your  claim.  You  have  had  days, 
months,  years,  maybe,  to  see  the  blowout  doing 
its  work.  I  awakened  suddenly  one  morning  from 
a  beautiful  day-dream.  My  only  heritage  left  of 
all  the  fortune  I  had  been  brought  to  expect  to 
be  mine,  the  inheritance  I  had  idealized  with  all 
the  romantic  beauty  and  prosperity  possible  to 
rural  life,  in  a  minute  all  this  turned  to  a  desert 
before  my  eyes.  You  belong  to  the  West.  Tell 
me,  won't  you,  what  is  next  for  me?" 

"What  could  I  tell  you,  Miss  Swaim?"  Joe 
asked. 

"Tell  me  what  to  do,  I  mean,"  Jerry  exclaimed. 
"Tell  me  quickly,  for  I  am  right  against  the  bread 
line  now." 

For  a  moment  Joe  stared  at  the  girl  in  amaze 
ment.  Her  earnestness  left  no  room  to  misun 
derstand  her.  But  his  senses  came  back  quickly, 
as  one  whose  life  habit  it  had  been  to  meet  and 
answer  hard  questions  suddenly. 

"Why  not  go  back  East?"  he  asked. 

"One  of  your  two  last  resorts;  the  other  one  is 
madness.  I  won't  do  it,"  Jerry  said,  stubbornly. 
"Shall  I  tell  you  why?" 

184 


IF  A  WOMAN  WENT  RIGHT  WITH  HERSELF 

It  was  a  delicious  surprise  to  the  young  ranch 
man  to  be  taken  into  the  confidence  of  this  charm 
ing,  gracious  girl.  The  honeysuckle  leaves,  stirred 
by  the  soft  night  breeze  that  came  purring  across 
the  open  plain,  gave  the  moonbeams  leave  to  play 
with  the  rippling  gold  of  her  hair,  and  to  flutter 
ever  so  faintly  the  soft  white  draperies  of  her 
gown.  Her  big  dark  eyes,  her  fair  white  throat 
and  shoulders,  the  faint  pink  hue  of  her  cheeks, 
the  shapely  white  arms  below  the  elbow-frilled 
sleeves,  her  soft  voice,  her  frank  trust  in  his  judg 
ment  and  integrity,  made  that  appeal  that  rarely 
comes  to  a  young  man's  heart  oftener  than  once 
in  a  lifetime. 

"My  father  lived  a  rich  man  and  died  a  poor 
man,  leaving  me — for  mother  went  first — to  the 
care  of  his  wealthy  sister.  A  half  -  forgotten 
claim  on  the  Sage  Brush  is  my  only  possession 
after  two  years  of  litigation  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing."  Jerry  paused. 

"Well?"  Joe  queried. 

"I  was  offered  one  of  two  alternatives:  I  might 
be  dependent  on  my  aunt's  bounty  or  I  could  come 
out  West  and  live  on  my  claim.  I  chose  the  West. 
Now  what  can  I  do?" 

The  pathos  of  the  young  face  was  touching. 
The  question  of  maintenance  is  hard  enough  for 
the  resourceful  and  experienced  to  meet;  how 
doubly  hard  it  must  be  to  the  young,  untried,  and 
untrained ! 

13  185 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

Joe  Thomson  looked  out  to  where  the  open 
prairie,  swathed  in  silvery  mist,  seemed  to  flow 
up  to  the  indefinite  bounds  of  the  town.  All  the 
earth  was  beautiful  in  the  stillness  of  the  June 
night. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  advise  you,"  he  said,  at 
length.  "If  you  were  one  of  us — a  real  Western 
girl — it  would  be  different." 

To  Jerry  this  sincerity  outweighed  any  sugges 
tion  he  could  have  offered.  From  the  point  of 
romance  this  young  man  was  impossible  to  Lesa 
Swaim's  child.  Yet  truly  nobody  before,  not 
even  York  Macpherson,  had  ever  seemed  like 
such  a  real  friend  to  her,  and  the  chance  acquaint 
ance  was  reaching  by  leaps  and  bounds  toward  a 
genuine  comradeship. 

"Why  do  you  stay  here?  You  weren't  born 
here,  were  you?  Tell  me  about  yourself,"  Jerry 
demanded. 

"There's  a  big  difference  between  our  cases," 
Joe  replied,  wondering  how  this  girl  could  care 
anything  for  his  life-story.  "I  was  the  oldest 
child  of  our  family.  My  father  came  out  here  on 
account  of  his  health,  but  ke  came  too  late,  and 
died,  leaving  me  the  claim  on  the  Sage  Brush  and 
my  pledge  on  his  death-bed  never  to  leave  the 
West,  for  fear  I,  too,  would  become  an  invalid  as 
he  had  been.  There  seems  to  be  little  danger  of 
that,  and  I  like  the  West  too  well  to  leave  it  now. 
And  then,  besides,  I'm  like  a  lot  of  other  fellows 

186 


IF  A  WOMAN  WENT  RIGHT  WITH  HERSELF 

who  claim  to  love  the  Sage  Brush.  I  haven't  the 
means  to  get  away  and  start  life  anywhere  else, 
anyhow.  You  see,  we  are  as  frank  out  here  about 
our  conditions  as  you  Philadelphians  are." 

He  smiled  and  looked  down  at  his  strong  hands 
and  sturdy  arms.  It  would  be  difficult  to  think  of 
Joe  Thomson  as  an  invalid. 

"I  inherited,  besides  my  claim  and  my  prom 
ise,  the  provision  for  two  younger  sisters,  housed 
with  relatives  in  the  East,  but  supported  by  con 
tributions  from  this  same  Sage  Brush  claim  on 
which  I  have  had  to  wrestle  with  the  heat  and 
drought  that  sear  the  prairies.  And  now,  when 
both  my  sisters,  who  married  young,  are  provided 
for  and  settled  in  homes  of  their  own,  and  I  can 
begin  to  live  my  own  life  a  little,  comes  my 
enemy,  the  blowout — 

"Oh,  I  never  want  to  think  of  that  awful  thing!" 
Jerry  cried.  "I  shall  give  the  Macpherson  Mort 
gage  Company  control  of  the  entire  sand-pile. 
I'll  never  play  there  again,  never!" 

In  the  silence  that  followed  something  in  the 
beauty  of  the  midsummer  night  seemed  to  fall  like 
a  benediction  on  this  man  and  this  woman,  each 
facing  big  realities.  And,  however  different  their 
equipment  for  their  struggles  had  been  in  previous 
years,  they  were  not  so  far  apart  now  as  their 
differing  circumstances  of  life  would  indicate. 

"I  must  be  going  now.  I  did  not  mean  to  take 
so  much  of  your  time.  I  came  only  to  assure  you 

187 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

that  I  am  not  always  so  rude  as  the  mood  you 
found  me  in  the  other  day  would  indicate."  Joe 
rose  to  go  with  the  words. 

Jerry's  mind  had  run  back  again,  dreamily,  to 
Gene  Wellington,  of  Philadelphia,  the  Gene  as 
she  knew  and  remembered  him.  It  was  not  until 
afterward  that  she  recalled  her  surprise  that  this 
ranchman  of  the  Western  prairies  should  have 
such  a  simple  and  easy  manner  whose  home  life 
had  evidently  been  so  unlike  her  own. 

"You  haven't  stayed  too  long,"  she  said, 
frankly.  "And  you  haven't  yet  suggested  what 
an  undertrained  Philadelphia  girl  can  do  to  keep 
the  coyote  from  her  dugout  portal." 

If  only  she  had  been  a  little  less  bewitchingly 
pretty,  a  little  less  sure  that  the  distance  of  planet 
from  planet  lay  between  them,  a  strange  sense  of 
sorrow,  and  a  strange  new  purpose  would  not  have 
found  a  place  in  Joe  Thomson's  heart  then.  With 
a  perception  much  keener  than  her  own,  he  read 
Jerry's  mind  that  night  as  she  had  never  tried  to 
read  it  herself. 

"I'm  better  up  on  soils  and  farm  products  than 
on  civic  problems  and  social  economy  and  such. 
Dry  farming,  clerking,  sewing,  household  eco 
nomics  in  somebody's  cook-shack,  teaching  school, 
giving  music  lessons,  canvassing  for  magazines — 
the  Sage  Brush  girls  do  things  like  these.  I  wish 
I  could  name  a  calling  more  suitable  for  you,  but 
this  is  the  only  line  I  can  offer,"  Joe  said,  thinking 

188 


IF  A  WOMAN  WENT  RIGHT  WITH  HERSELF 

how  impossible  it  would  be  for  the  girl  beside  him 
to  fit  into  the  workaday  world  of  the  Sage  Brush 
Valley.  On  the  next  ranch  to  his  own  up 
the  river  a  fair-haired,  sun -browned  girl  was 
working  in  the  harvest-field  this  season  to 
save  the  price  of  a  hired  hand,  toward  going  to 
college  that  fall.  Jolly,  strong-handed,  strong- 
hearted  Thelma  Ekblad,  whose  name  was  yet  to 
adorn  an  alumni  record  of  the  big  university 
proud  to  call  her  its  product.  Jerry  Swaim 
would  never  thrive  in  the  same  soil  with  this 
stout  Norwegian. 

They  were  standing  on  the  porch  steps  now,  and 
the  white  moonbeams  glorified  Jerry's  beauty,  for 
the  young  ranchman,  as  she  looked  up  at  him  with 
a  smile  on  her  lips  and  eyes  full  of  light,  a  sudden 
decision  giving  new  character  to  her  countenance. 
The  suddenness  of  it,  that  was  her  mother's  child. 
The  purpose,  that  was  the  reflection  of  Jim  Swaim's 
mind. 

"I'm  on  the  other  side  of  my  Rubicon.  I'm 
going  to  teach  mathematics  in  the  New  Eden 
high-school.  Will  you  help  me  to  keep  across  the 
river?  There's  an  inspiration  for  me  in  the  things 
that  you  can  do?" 

"You!  Teach  mathematics!  They  always  have 
a  man  to  teach  that!"  Joe  exclaimed,  wondering 
behind  his  words  if  he  only  dreamed  that  she  had 
asked  him  to  help  to  keep  her  across  her  Rubicon, 
or  if  she  had  really  said  such  a  beautiful  thing  t« 

189 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

him,  Joe  Thomson,  sand-fighter  and  general  loser, 
who  wouldn't  be  downed. 

"Oh,  I  don't  wonder  you  are  surprised!  I  al 
ways  jump  quickly  when  I  do  move.  You  think  I 
couldn't  teach  A,  B,  C,  the  known  quantities, 
let  alone  x,  y,  z,  the  unknown  quantities,  don't 
you?"  Jerry  said,  gaily.  "When  I  went  to 
school  I  was  a  flunker  in  languages  and  sciences. 
I  was  weak  in  boarding-school  embroidery,  too, 
because  I  never  cared  for  those  things,  nor  was  I 
ever  made  to  study  anything  unless  I  chose  to  do 
it.  But  I  was  sure  in  trigonometry  and  calculus, 
which  I  might  have  dodged  and  didn't.  I  reveled 
in  them.  My  mother  was  scandalized,  and  Gene 
Wellington,  an  artist,  who,  by  the  way,  has  just 
given  up  his  career  for  a  good  bank  clerkship 
in  Philadelphia,  a  sort  of  cousin  of  mine,  was 
positively  shocked.  It  seemed  so  unrefined  and 
strong-minded.  But  my  father  said  I  was  just 
his  own  flesh  and  blood  in  that  line.  Yes,  I'll 
teach  school.  Mr.  Ponk  is  going  to  offer  me  the 
position,  and  it's  a  whole  lot  better  than  the  poor- 
house,  or  madness,  or  the  East,  maybe,"  she 
added,  softly,  with  a  luminous  glow  in  her  beauti 
ful  eyes. 

The  old  Sage  Brush  world  seemed  to  slip  out  from 
under  Joe  Thomson's  feet  just  then. 

"Is  your  friend  related  to  John  Wellington, 
who  once  lived  in  Philadelphia?"  he  asked,  after 
a  pause,  his  mind  far  away  from  his  query. 

190 


IF  A  WOMAN  WENT  RIGHT  WITH  HERSELF 

"Why,  he's  John  Wellington's  son!  John  Well 
ington  was  a  sort  of  partner  of  my  father's  once," 
Jerry  said.  Even  in  the  soft  light  Joe  saw  the 
pink  flush  deepen  on  the  girl's  cheek.  "Good 
night."  She  offered  him  her  hand.  "I  hope  I 
may  see  you  often.  Oh,  I  hate  that  blowout, 
and  you  ought  to  hate  me  on  account  of  it." 

"It  is  a  brainless,  hateful  thing,"  Joe  Thomson 
declared,  as  he  took  her  proffered  hand.  "All 
my  streams  seem  to  be  Rubicons,  even  to  the 
crooked  old  Sage  Brush.  I  can't  be  an  inspiration 
to  anybody.  It  is  you  who  can  give  me  courage. 
If  you  can  teach  mathematics  in  New  Eden,  / 
believe  I  can  kill  that  blowout." 

The  strength  of  a  new-born  purpose  was  in  the 
man's  voice. 

"Oh,  no,  you  can't,  for  it's  mostly  on  my  land 
yet!"  Jerry  replied. 

"Well,  what  of  it?  You  say  you  won't  play 
in  that  old  sand-pile  any  more.  What  do  you  care 
who  else  plays  there?  Good  night." 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Thomson.  WTiy,  what  is 
that?"  Jerry's  eyes  were  on  a  short,  squat  figure 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  gateway  to  the 
Macpherson  grounds. 

"That's  'Fishing  Teddy,'  an  old  character  who 
lives  a  hermit  kind  of  life  down  the  Sage  Brush. 
He  comes  to  town  about  four  times  a  year;  usually 
walks  both  ways;  but  I  promised  to  take  him  out 
with  me  to-night.  He's  harmless  and  gentle. 

191 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

Everybody  likes  him — I  mean  of  our  sort.  You 
wouldn't  be  interested  in  him.  His  real  name  is 
Hans  Theodore,  but,  of  course,  nobody  calls  him 
Mr.  Theodore.  Everybody  calls  him  'Fishing 
Teddy.'  Good  night,  Miss  Swaim." 

Joe  Thomson  lifted  his  hat  and  walked  away. 

Jerry  saw  the  old  man  shuffle  out  and  join 
him,  and  the  two  went  down  the  street  to 
gether,  one,  big  and  muscular,  with  head  erect 
and  an  easy,  fearless  stride;  the  other,  humped 
down,  frowsy,  shambling,  a  sort  of  half-product 
of  humanity,  whose  companion  was  the  river, 
whose  days  were  solitary,  who  had  no  part  in  the 
moonlight,  the  perfume  of  honeysuckle  blossoms, 
the  pleasure  of  companionship,  the  easy  comfort 
that  wealth  can  bring.  His  to  bear  the  heat  and 
the  cinders  on  the  rear  platforms  of  jerky  freight- 
trains,  his  to  serve  his  best  food  to  imperious 
young  city  girls  lost  in  an  impetuous  passion  of 
disappointment  in  a  new  and  bewildering  land. 
And  yet  his  mind  was  serene.  Knowing  the  river 
would  bring  him  his  food  in  the  morning  and  his 
commodity  of  commerce  for  his  needs,  he  was 
vastly  more  contented  with  his  lot  to-night  than 
was  the  stalwart  young  man  who  stalked  beside 
him,  grimly  resolving  to  go  out  and  do  things. 

Jerry  watched  the  two  until  they  turned  into 
a  side-street  and  disappeared.  The  moonlight  was 
wondrously  bright  and  the  air  was  like  crystal.  A 
faint,  sweet  odor  from  hay-fields  came  up  the  valley 

192 


IF  A  WOMAN  WENT  RIGHT  WITH  HERSELF 

now  and  then,  and  all  the  world  was  serenely 
silent  under  the  spell  of  night.  The  net  seemed 
torn  away  from  about  the  girl's  feet,  the  cloud 
lifted  from  her  brain,  the  blinding,  blurring  mists 
from  before  her  eyes. 

"I  have  crossed  my  Rubicon,"  she  murmured, 
standing  still  in  the  doorway  of  the  porch  trellis, 
breathing  deeply  of  the  pure  evening  air.  "I'm 
glad  he  came.  I  am  free  again,  and  I'm  really 
happy.  I  suppose  I  am  queer.  If  anybody  should 
put  me  in  a  novel,  the  critics  would  say  'such  a 
girl  never  came  to  Kansas.'  But  then  if  Gene 
should  paint  that  blowout,  the  critics  would  say 
'there  never  was  such  a  landscape  in  Kansas/ 
These  critics  know  so  much.  Only  Gene  will 
never  paint  any  more  pictures — not  masterpieces, 
anyhow.  But  I'm  going  to  live  my  life  my  own 
way.  I  won't  go  back  to  idleness  and  a  life  of 
sand  at  'Eden.'  I'll  win  out  here — I  will,  I  will! 
'If  a  woman  goes  right  with  herself.'  Oh,  Uncle 
Cornie,  I  am  starting.  Whether  I  hold  out  de 
pends  on  the  way — and  myself." 

When  Laura  Macpherson  peeped  into  Jerry's 
room  late  that  night  she  saw  her  guest  sleeping 
as  serenely  as  if  her  mind  had  never  a  puzzling 
question,  her  sunny  day  never  a  storm-cloud.  So 
far  Jerry  had  gone  right  with  herself. 


X 

THE    SNARE    OF    THE    FOWLER 

big  dramas  of  life  are  enacted  in  the  big 
centers  of  human  population.  Great  cities 
foster  great  commercial  institutions;  they  father 
great  constructive  enterprises;  they  endow  great 
educational  systems;  they  build  up  great  welfare 
centers;  and  they  reach  out  and  touch  and  shape 
great  national  and  international  conditions.  In 
them  the  big  tragedies  and  comedies  of  life — 
political,  religious,  social,  domestic — have  their 
settings.  And  under  the  power  of  their  combined 
units  empires  appear  and  disappear.  But,  set  in 
smaller  font,  all  the  great  dramas  of  life  are  printed, 
without  a  missing  part,  in  the  humbler  communities 
of  the  commonwealth.  All  the  types  appear;  all 
conditions,  aspirations,  cunning  seditions,  and 
crowning  successes  have  their  scenery  and  persona 
so  true  to  form  that  sometimes  the  act  itself  takes 
on  the  dignity  of  the  big  world  drama.  And  the 
actor  who  produces  it  becomes  a  star,  for  villainy 
or  virtue,  as  powerful  in  his  sphere  as  the  great 
star  -  courted  suns  of  larger  systems.  Booth 

194 


THE    SNARE    OF    THE    FOWLER 

Tarkington  makes  one  of  his  fiction  characters 
say,  "There  are  as  many  different  kinds  of  folks  in 
Kokomo  as  there  are  in  Pekin." 

New  Eden  in  the  Sage  Brush  Valley,  on  the  far 
side  of  Kansas,  might  never  inspire  the  pen  of  a 
world  genius,  and  yet  in  the  small-town  chronicle 
runs  the  same  drama  of  life  that  is  enacted  on  the 
great  stage  with  all  its  brilliant  settings.  Only 
these  smaller  actors  play  with  the  simplicity  of 
innocence,  never  dreaming  that  what  they  play 
so  well  are  really  world-sized  parts  fitted  down  to 
the  compass  of  their  settings. 

Something  like  this  philosophy  was  in  York 
Macpherson's  mind  the  next  morning  as  he  listened 
to  his  sister  and  her  guest  loitering  comfortably 
over  their  breakfast.  A  cool  wind  was  playing 
through  the  south  windows  that  might  mean  hot, 
sand-filled  air  later  on.  Just  now  life  was  worth 
all  the  cost  to  York,  who  was  enjoying  it  to  the 
limit  as  he  sat  studying  the  two  woinen  before 
him. 

"For  a  frivolous,  spoiled  girl,  Jerry  can  surely 
be  companionable,"  he  thought,  as  he  noted  how 
congenial  the  two  women  were  and  how  easily 
at  home  Jerry  was  even  on  matters  of  national 
interest.  "I  never  saw  a  type  of  mind  like  hers 
before — such  a  potentiality  for  doing  things  cou 
pled  with  such  dwarfed  results." 

York's  mind  was  so  absorbed,  as  he  sat  uncon 
sciously  staring  at  the  fair-faced  girl  opposite  him, 

195 


THE   RECLAIMERS 

that  he  did  not  heed  his  sister's  voice  until  she 
had  spoken  a  second  time. 

"York,  oh  York!  wake  up.    It's  daylight!" 

York  gave  a  start  and  he  felt  his  face  flush  with 
embarrassment. 

"As  I  was  saying  half  an  hour  ago,  brother, 
have  you  seen  my  little  silk  purse  anywhere? 
There  was  too  much  of  my  scant  income  in  it  to 
have  it  disappear  entirely." 

"Yes,  I  took  it.  I  'specially  needed  the  money 
for  a  purpose  of  my  own.  I  meant  to  tell  you,  but 
I  forgot  it.  I'll  bring  back  the  purse  later,"  York 
replied. 

Of  course  Laura  understood  that  this  was 
York's  return  for  catching  him  at  a  disadvantage, 
but  she  meant  to  pursue  the  quest  in  spite  of  her 
brother's  teasing,  for  she  was  really  concerned. 

Only  a  few  days  before,  the  New  Eden  leak  had 
opened  again  and  some  really  valuable  things, 
far  scattered  and  hardly  enough  to  be  considered 
separately,  had  disappeared.  Laura  by  chance 
had  heard  that  week  of  two  instances  on  the  town 
side  of  the  river,  and  on  the  evening  previous  of 
one  across  the  river. 

Before  she  spoke  again  she  saw  that  Jerry's  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  buffet,  where  two  silver  cups, 
exactly  alike,  sat  side  by  side.  There  was  a  queer 
expression  about  the  girl's  mouth  as  she  caught 
ker  hostess's  eye. 

"Is  there  any  more  silver  of  that  pattern  in  this 

196 


THE    SNARE   OF   THE    FOWLER 

part  of  the  country?"  she  asked,  with  seeming 
carelessness,  wrestling  the  while  with  a  little  prob 
lem  of  her  own. 

"Not  a  pennyweight  this  side  of  old  *  Castle 
Cluny*  in  Scotland,  so  far  as  I  know,"  York  re 
plied.  "There's  your  other  cup,  after  all,  Laura. 
By  the  way,  Miss  Jerry,  how  would  you  like  to 
take  a  horseback  ride  over  'Kingussie'?  I  must 
go  to  the  far  side  of  the  ranch  this  morning,  and 
I  would  like  a  companion — even  yourself." 

"Do  go,  Jerry.  I  don't  ride  any  more,"  Laura 
urged,  with  that  cheerful  smile  that  told  how 
heroically  she  bore  her  affliction.  "I  used  to  ride 
miles  with  York  back  in  the  Winnowoc  country." 

"And  York  always  misses  you  whenever  he 
rides,"  her  brother  replied,  beaming  affectionately 
upon  his  brave,  sweet  sister.  "Maybe,  though, 
Jerry  doesn't  ride  on  horseback,"  he  added. 

At  Laura's  words  Jerry's  mind  was  flooded  with 
memories  of  the  Winnowoc  country  where  from 
childhood  she  had  taken  long,  exhilarating  rides 
with  her  father  and  her  cousin  Gene  Wellington. 

"I've  always  ridden  on  horseback,"  she  said, 
dreamily,  without  looking  up. 

"She's  going  to  ride  with  me,  not  with  ghosts 
of  Eastern  lovers,  if  she  rides  to-day,"  York  re 
solved,  a  sudden  tenseness  catching  at  his  throat. 

"WTiat  kind  of  mounts  are  you  afraid  of?  I 
can  have  Ponk  send  up  something  easy,"  he  said, 
in  a  quiet,  fatherly  way. 

197 


THE   RECLAIMERS 

Jerry's  eyes  darkened.  "I  can  ride  anything 
your  Sage  Brush  grows  that  you  call  a  saddle- 
horse,"  she  declared,  with  pretty  daring.  "Why, 
'I  was  the  pride  of  the  countryside'  back  in  a 
country  where  fine  horses  grew.  Really  and  seri 
ously,  it  was  Cousin  Gene  who  was  afraid  of  spir 
ited  horses,  and  he  looked  so  splendid  on  them, 
too.  But  he  couldn't  manage  them  any  more 
than  he  could  run  an  automobile  over  the  bluff 
road  above  the  big  cut  this  side  of  the  third  cross 
ing  of  the  Winnowoc.  He  preferred  to  crawl 
through  that  cut  in  the  slow  old  local  train  while  I 
climbed  over  the  bluffs  in  our  big  car.  You  hadn't 
figured  on  my  boasting  qualities,  had  you?"  she 
added,  with  a  smile  at  her  own  vaunting  words. 

* ' Oh,  go  on, "  Laura  urged .  "I  heard  your  father 
telling  us  once  that  your  cousin,  on  the  Darby 
side,  would  ride  out  with  you  bravely  enough,  but 
that  you  traded  horses  when  you  got  off  the  place 
and  you  always  came  back  home  on  the  one  they 
were  afraid  for  you  to  take  out  and  your  cousin 
was  afraid  to  ride  back." 

"She  climbed  while  Cousin  Gene  crawled.  I 
believe  she  said  something  there,  but  she  doesn't 
know  it  yet;  and  it's  not  my  business  to  tell  her 
till  she  asks  me."  York  shut  his  lips  grimly  at 
the  unspoken  words.  "We'll  be  back,  appetite 
and  sundries,  for  the  best  meal  the  scullery-maid 
can  loot  from  the  village,"  he  said,  as  they  rose 
from  the  table. 

198 


THE    SNARE    OF   THE    FOWLER 

When  Jerry  came  out  of  the  side  door,  where 
York  was  waiting  for  her,  she  suggested  at  once  a 
model  for  a  cover  illustration  of  an  outing  maga 
zine,  an  artistic  advertisement  for  well-tailored 
results,  and  a  type  of  young  American  beauty. 
As  they  rode  back  toward  the  barns  and  cattle- 
sheds  that  belonged  to  the  ranch  edging  the  cor 
poration  limits  of  New  Eden,  neither  one  noticed 
the  tall,  angular  form  of  Mrs.  Stellar  Bahrr  as  she 
came  striding  across  lots  toward  the  driveway. 

Stellar  lived  in  a  side  street.  Her  back  yard 
bordered  a  vacant  lot  on  the  next  side  street  above 
her.  Crossing  this,  she  could  slip  over  the  lawn 
of  a  vacant  house  and  down  the  alley  half  a  block, 
and  on  by  the  United  Brethren  minister's  parson 
age.  That  let  her  sidle  between  a  little  carpenter- 
shop  and  a  shoe-shop  to  the  rear  gateway  into  an 
alley  that  led  out  to  the  open  ground  at  the  foot 
of  the  Macpherson  knoll.  Stellar  preferred  this 
corkscrew  route  to  the  "Castle."  It  gave  her 
several  back  and  side  views,  with  "listening- 
posts"  at  certain  points. 

"Oh,  good  morning,  Laury:  I'm  so  glad  to 
find  you  alone.  I'm  in  a  little  trouble,  an'  mebby 
you  can  help  me  out.  You  are  everybody's  friend, 
just  like  your  brother,  exactly.  Only  his  bein' 
that  way's  bound  to  get  him  into  trouble  sooner  or 
before  that.  Eh !  What's  that  you're  lookin'  at?" 

Laura  had  gone  to  the  buffet  after  the  riders  had 
started  away.  She  had  a  singular  feeling  about 

199 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

that  cup  appearing  so  suddenly.  She  remem 
bered  now  that  Jerry  had  asked  twice  about 
those  cups,  and  had  looked  at  them  with  such  a 
peculiar  expression  on  each  occasion.  Laura  had 
not  remarked  upon  it  to  herself  the  first  time,  but 
the  trifling  incident  at  the  table  just  now  stayed 
in  her  mind.  Yet  why?  The  housekeeper  often 
rearranged  the  dining-room  features  in  her  en 
deavor  to  keep  things  free  from  dust.  That  would 
not  satisfy  the  query.  That  cup  and  Jerry  Swaim 
were  dodging  about  most  singularly  in  Laura's 
consciousness,  and  she  could  not  know  that  the 
reason  for  it  lay  in  the  projecting  power  of  the 
mind  of  the  woman  coming  across  lots  at  that 
moment  to  call  on  her. 

Yet  when  Mrs.  Bahrr  thrust  herself  into  the 
dining-room  unannounced,  as  was  her  habit,  with 
her  insistent  greeting,  and  her  query,  "What's 
that  you're  lookin'  at?"  the  mistress  of  "Castle 
Cluny"  had  a  feeling  of  having  been  caught  hold 
ing  a  guilty  suspicion;  and  when  Stellar  Bahrr  ran 
her  through  with  steely  eyes  she  felt  herself  blush 
ing  with  surprise  and  chagrin. 

"How  can  I  help  you,  Mrs.  Bahrr?"  she  asked, 
recovering  herself  in  a  moment. 

It  was,  however,  the  loss  of  the  moment  that 
always  gave  the  woman  before  her  the  clue  she 
wanted. 

"I'm  needin*  just  a  little  money — only  a  few 
dollars.  I'm  quittin'  hat-trimmin'  since  them 

200 


THE    SNARE    OF   THE    FOWLER 

smarties  down-town  got  so  busy  makin'  over,  an* 
trimmin'  over,  an*  everything.  I'm  goin*  to 
makin'  bread.  I've  got  six  customers  already,  an* 
I'm  needin'  a  gasoliner  the  worst  way.  I  lack 
jist  five — mebby  I  could  squeeze  out  with  four 
dollars  if  I  had  it  right  away.  You  never  knowed 
what  it  means  to  be  hard  up,  I  reckon;  never  had 
no  trouble  at  all;  no  husband  to  up  an*  leave  you 
and  not  a  soul  to  lean  on.  You've  always  had 
York  to  lean  on.  I  'ain't  got  nobody." 

The  drooping  figure  and  wrinkled  face  were 
pitiful  enough  to  keep  Laura  Macpherson  from 
reminding  her  that  she  was  older  than  her  brother 
and  once  the  leaning  had  been  the  other  way. 
Here  was  a  needy,  lonely,  friendless  woman.  What 
matter  that  her  greatest  enemy  was  herself?  All 
of  us  are  in  that  boat. 

"Of  course  I'll  help  you,  Mrs.  Bahrr.  I'll  get 
the  money  right  away." 

She  rose  to  leave  the  room,  then  sat  down  again 
hastily. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  help  you  right  now,  either. 
I  have  mislaid  my  purse.  But  when  I  find  Jt  I'll 
let  you  have  the  money.  When  York  conies  back 
maybe  I  can  get  it  of  him.  Could  you  come  over 
this  afternoon?" 

"Mebby  York  won't  let  you  have  it  to  loan 
where  there  ain't  no  big  interest  comin'.  I'd 
ruther  he  didn't  know  it  if  you  wasn't  sure." 

Laura  recalled  what  her  brother  had  said  about 

14  201 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

not  becoming  entangled  with  Stellar  Bahrr,  and 
she  knew  he  would  oppose  the  loan.  She  knew, 
too,  that  in  the  end  he  would  consent  to  it,  be 
cause  he  himself  was  continually  befriending  the 
poor,  no  matter  how  shiftless  they  might  be. 

"I  think  I  can  bring  York  round,  all  right," 
Laura  assured  her  caller.  "He's  not  unreason 
able." 

"I'd  ruther  he  didn't  know.  Men  are  so  dif 
ferent  from  women,  you  know.  You  say  you  lost 
your  purse.  Ain't  that  funny?  Where?" 

"The  funny  thing  is  I  don't  know  where," 
Laura  replied. 

Mrs.  Bahrr  had  settled  down,  and,  having  ac 
complished  her  open  purpose,  began  to  train  her 
batteries  for  her  hidden  motive. 

"Things  gits  lost  funny  ways,  queer  ways,  and 
sometimes  ornery  ways.  Ever'  now  an'  then 
things  is  simply  missin'  here  in  this  burg — just 
missin'.  But  again  there's  such  queer  folks  even  in 
what  you  call  the  best  s'ciety.  Now  ain't  that  so?" 

Laura  agreed  amiably.  In  truth,  she  wanted  to 
get  her  mind  away  from  its  substratum  of  un 
pleasant  and  unusual  thought  for  which  she  could 
not  account.  Nothing  could  take  her  farther 
from  it  than  Mrs.  Bahrr's  small  talk  about  people 
and  things.  She  knew  better  than  to  accept  the 
gossip  for  facts,  but  there  was  no  courteous  way 
of  stopping  Stellar  now,  anyhow.  One  had  to  meet 
her  on  the  threshold  for  that. 

202 


THE    SNARE    OF   THE    FOWLER 

"'Tain't  always  the  little,  petty  thievin'  sneak 
gits  the  things,  even  if  they  do  git  the  blame  of  it. 
No,  'tain't."  Mrs.  Bahrr  rambled  on,  fixing  her 
hook  eyes  square  into  her  hostess  at  just  the  right 
moment  for  emphasis.  "I  knowed  the  same  thing 
happen  twice.  Once  back  in  Indiany,  where  I 
come  from — jist  a  little  town  on  White  River. 
There  was  a  girl  come  to  that  town  from" — hesi 
tatingly — "from  Calif orny;  said  to  be  rich,  an' 
dressed  it  all  right;  had  every  man  there  crazy 
about  her,  an'  her  spendin'  money  like  water 
pours  over  a  mill-wheel  in  March.  Tell  you  who 
she  looked  like — jist  a  mite  like  this  Miss  Swim 
stayin'  at  your  house  now — big  eyes  an'  innocent- 
lookin'  like  her,  but  this  Californy  girl  was  a  lot 
the  best-lookin'  of  the  two — a  lot.  An'  she  was 
rich — or  so  everybody  thought.  This  un  ain't. 
I  got  that  out  of  Ponk  'fore  he  knowed  it.  An' — 
well,  to  make  a  story  end  somewhere  this  side  of 
eternity,  I  never  could  bear  them  ramblin'  kind 
of  folks — first  thing  folks  knowed  a  rich  old  bach 
elor  got  animated  with  her,  just  clear  animated, 
an'  literally  swore  by  her.  An* — well,  things  got  to 
missin'  a  little  an'  a  little  more,  an',  sir — well" — 
slowly  and  impressively — "it  turned  out  at  last 
that  this  girl  who  they  said  was  so  rich  was  a 
thief,  takin'  whatever  she  could  get,  'cause  she  was 
hard  up  an'  too  proud  to  go  back  to  Oregon  to 
tell  her  folks.  An'  that  rich  bachelor  jist  defended 
her  ever'  way — 'd  say  he  took  things  accidental, 

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THE    RECLAIMERS 

an*  then  help  her  to  git  'em  back,  or  git  away  with 
them — it  was  like  a  real  drammy  jist  like  they 
acted  out  in  the  picture  show  t'other  night  down 
town.  There  was  lots  of  talk,  an'  it  nearly  broke 
his  sister's — I  mean  his  mother's — heart.  But, 
pshaw!  that  all  happened  years  ago  down  in 
Indiany  on  the  White  River.  It's  all  forgot  long 
'go.  Guess  I'd  never  thought  of  it  again  if  this 
Swim  girl  hadn't  come  here  with  her  big  eyes,  re- 
mindin'  me  of  that  old  forgot  eppisode,  an'  your 
losin'  your  purse  mysterious.  How  things  happen, 
year  in  an'  year  out,  place  after  place,  the  same 
kind  of  things;  good  folks  everywhere,  though — 
everywhere.  I  was  in  York's  office  late  yistyday 
afternoon,  an'  this  girl  comes  in.  Too  bad  she's 
so  poor  an'  so  pretty." 

There  was  a  venomous  twist  of  the  hooks  at 
that  word  "pretty." 

"But  she's  in  trouble  some  way,  all  right,  I 
know,  an'  York  '11  help  her  out.  /  wouldn't  ask 
him.  Men  take  more  int'rist  naturally  in  young 
an'  pretty  women.  But  it's  different  with  older 
women.  I  hope  York  never  gits  caught  sometime 
like  that  man  I  knowed  back  in  Indiany.  He's 
too  smart  for  that.  Miss  Swim  must  have  told 
York  about  her  money  shortage  yistyday.  The 
postmaster  said  she'd  been  waitin'  for  a  check 
considerable.  I  couldn't  get  nothin'  out  of  him, 
whether  it  had  come  yet  or  not.  But  I  guess  not. 
But  la!  la!  she's  your  guest;  you  wouldn't  let  her 

204 


THE    SNARE    OF   THE    FOWLER 

suffer;  an'  I  ain't  tellin'  a  soul  what  I  know  about 
things.  I  do  know  what  they  say,  of  course. 
York  won't  let  her  suffer.  But  I'm  so  much  obliged 
to  you.  Four  dollars  will  be  all  I  need,  an'  I'll  pay 
you  with  the  first  bakin's.  I  guess  I'll  set  some 
folks  thinkin'  when  they  see  I  can  make  my  own 
way — " 

Laura  Macpherson  was  on  her  feet  and  it  was 
her  eyes  now  that  were  holding  the  woman  of  the 
steel  hooks. 

"Miss  Swaim  is  our  guest,  the  daughter  of  an 
old  friend  of  the  Macphersons.  Of  course  we — " 

Oh  what  was  the  use?  Laura's  anger  fell  away. 
It  was  too  ridiculous  to  engage  in  a  quarrel  with 
the  town  long-tongue.  York  was  right.  The  only 
way  to  get  along  with  Stellar  Bahrr  was  not  to 
traffic  with  her.  Mrs.  Bahrr  rose  also,  gripping  at 
the  chance  for  escape  uninjured. 

"I'll  see  you  this  afternoon  if  you  still  feel  like 
helpin'  me,  an'  York  is  willin'.  I  clear  forgot  to 
put  out  my  ice-card.  Good  day.  Good  day." 

The  woman  shuffled  away,  leaving  the  mistress 
of  "Cluny  Castle"  in  the  grip  of  many  evil  spirits. 
The  demon  of  anger,  of  doubt,  of  contempt,  of 
incipient  distrust,  of  self-accusation  for  even  listen 
ing — these  and  others  contended  with  the  angel 
of  the  sense  of  humor  and  the  natural  courtesy 
of  a  well-bred  woman. 

And  then  the  lost  purse  came  up  again. 

"I  may  have  left  it  in  Jerry's  room  when  I 

205 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

went  to  that  closet  after  my  wrap  last  evening. 
I'll  never  learn  to  keep  my  clothes  out  of  our 
guest-room,  I  suppose,"  Laura  said  to  herself, 
going  at  once  to  Jerry's  room. 

As  she  pushed  aside  some  dresses  suspended  by 
hoops  to  a  pole  in  the  closet,  Jerry's  beaded  hand 
bag  fell  from  a  shelf  above  the  hangings,  and  the 
fastening,  loosened  by  the  fall,  let  the  contents 
roll  out  and  lay  exposed  on  the  floor. 

As  Laura  began  to  gather  them  up  and  put 
them  back  in  their  place,  she  saw  her  own  silk 
purse  stuffed  tightly  into  the  bottom  of  her  guest's 
hand-bag.  And  then  and  there  the  poison  tips  of 
Stellar  Bahrr's  shafts  began  a  festering  sore  deep 
and  difficult  to  reach 

It  was  high  noon  when  York  Macpherson  and 
his  fair  companion  returned  from  the  far  side  of 
the  big  Macpherson  ranch.  Jerry's  hair  was  blown 
in  ringlets  about  her  forehead  and  neck.  Her 
cheeks  were  blooming  and  her  eyes  were  like  stars. 
With  the  fresh  morning  breeze  across  the  prairie, 
the  exhilarating  ride  on  horseback,  and  the  novel 
interest  in  a  ranch  whose  appointments  were  so 
unlike  "Eden"  and  the  other  Winnowoc  Valley 
farms,  Jerry  had  the  ecstasy  of  a  new  freedom  to 
quicken  her  pulse-beat.  She  had  solved  her  prob 
lem;  now  she  was  free  for  her  romantic  nature 
to  expand.  It  was  such  a  freedom  as  she  had  never 
in  her  wilful  life  known  before,  because  it  had  a 

206 


THE    SNARE    OF    THE    FOWLER 

purpose  in  it  such  as  she  had  never  known  before, 
a  purpose  in  which  the  subconscious  knowledge 
of  dependence  on  somebody  else,  the  subjection  to 
somebody  else's  ultimate  control,  played  no  part. 

To  Laura  Macpherson  she  seemed  to  have  burst 
from  the  bud  to  the  full-blown  flower  in  one  short 
forenoon. 

York's  face,  however,  was  wearing  that  impene 
trable  mask  that  even  his  sister's  keen  and  loving 
eyes  could  never  pierce.  He  had  been  impene 
trable  often  in  the  last  few  weeks.  But  of  the 
York  back  of  that  unreadable  face  Laura  was  sure. 
Even  in  their  mutual  teasings  the  deep,  brotherly 
affection  was  unwavering.  As  far  as  it  lay  in 
York's  power  he  would  never  fail  to  make  up  to 
his  companionable  sister  for  what  circumstances 
had  taken  from  her.  And  yet — the  substratum  of 
her  disturbed  consciousness  would  send  an  up 
heaval  to  the  surface  now  and  then.  All  normal 
minds  are  made  alike  and  played  upon  by  the 
same  influences.  The  difference  lies  in  the  intensity 
of  control  to  subdue  or  yield  to  the  force  of  these 
influences.  Things  had  happened  in  that  morning 
ride  that  York  had  planned  merely  for  the  benefi 
cence  of  the  prairie  breezes  upon  the  bewildered 
purposes  of  the  guest  of  the  house. 

On  the  far  side  of  the  "Kingussie"  ranch  the 
two  riders  had  halted  in  the  shade  of  a  clump  of 
wild  plum-trees  beside  the  trail  that  follows  the 
course  of  the  Sage  Brush.  Below  them  a  little 

207 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

creek  wound  through  a  shelving  outcrop  of  shale, 
bordered  by  soft,  steep  earth  banks  wherever  the 
shale  disappeared.  This  Kingussie  Creek  was 
sometimes  a  swift,  dangerous  stream,  but  oftener 
it  was  a  mere  runlet  with  deep  water-holes  carved 
here  and  there  in  the  yielding  shale.  Just  now,  at 
the  approach  of  July  heat,  there  was  only  a  tiny 
thread  of  water  trickling  clear  over  yellow  rock, 
or  deep  pools  lying  in  muddy  thickness  in  the 
stagnant  places. 

"Not  much  like  the  Winnowoc,"  York  sug 
gested,  as  his  companion  sat  staring  down  at  the 
stream-bed  below. 

"Everything  is  different  here,"  Jerry  said,  medi 
tatively.  "I've  traveled  quite  a  little  before; 
been  as  far  as  the  White  Mountains  and  the  beau 
tiful  woodsy  country  up  in  York  State.  There's 
a  lot  of  upness  and  downness  to  the  scenery,  but 
the  people — except,  of  course — "  Jerry  smiled 
bewitchingly. 

"Except  Ponk,  of  course,"  York  supplied,  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"How  well  you  comprehend!"  Jerry  assured 
him.  "But,  seriously,  the  world  is  so  different 
out  here — the — the  people  and  their  ways  and  all." 

"No,  Jerry,  it  isn't  that.  The  climate  is  differ 
ent.  The  shapes  of  things  differ.  Instead  of  the 
churned-up  ridged  and  rugged  timber-decked 
lands  of  Pennsylvania  and  York  State,  the  Creator 
of  scenery  chose  to  pour  out  this  land  mainly  a 

208 


THE    SNARE    OF    THE    FOWLER 

smooth  and  level  and  treeless  prairie — like  choco 
late  on  the  top  of  a  layer  cake." 

"Chocolate  is  good,  with  sand  instead  of 
sugar,"  Jerry  interrupted. 

"But  as  to  the  people — the  real  heart  of  the 
real  folks  of  the  Sage  Brush — there's  no  difference. 
They  all  have  'eyes,  hands,  organs,  senses,  affec 
tions,  passions.'  They  are  all  'fed  with  the  same 
food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  subject  to  the 
same  diseases,  healed  with  the  same  means, 
warmed  and  cooled  with  the  same  summer  and 
winter '  as  the  cultured  and  uncultured  folk  of  the 
Winnowoc  Valley  and  the  city  of  Philadelphia. 
The  trouble  with  us  is  we  don't  take  time  to  read 
them — nor  even  first  of  all  to  read  ourselves.  Of 
course  I  might  except  old  Fishing  Teddy,  that 
fellow  you  see  away  down  there  where  the  shade 
is  deepest,"  York  added,  to  relieve  the  preach 
ment  he  didn't  want  to  seem  to  be  giving,  yet 
really  wanted  this  girl  to  understand.  "He's  a 
hermit-crab  and  seldom  comes  among  us.  Every 
community  has  its  characters,  you  know." 

"He  was  among  us  last  night,  and  went  home 
with  Joe  Thomson,"  Jerry  replied,  looking  with 
curious  interest  at  the  motionless  brown  figure  up 
stream  in  the  shadow  of  a  tall  earth  bank. 

York  gave  a  start  and  stared  at  the  girl  in  sur 
prise.  "How  do  you  know?  Did  the  Big  Dipper 
come  calling  on  you?  That  sort  of  information 
is  in  the  Great  Bear's  line." 

209 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

Jerry  flushed  hotly  as  she  remembered  her 
promise  not  to  tell  of  Mrs.  Bahrr's  call.  In  a  dim 
sort  of  way  she  felt  herself  entangled  for  the 
moment.  Then  she  looked  full  at  York,  with  deep, 
honest  eyes,  saying,  simply: 

"Joe  Thomson  was  calling  on  me  last  night,  and 
I  saw  this  old  fellow,  Hans  Theodore,  Joe  named 
him,  waiting  on  the  driveway,  and  the  two  went 
away  together,  a  pair  of  aces." 

"How  do  you  know,  fair  lady,  that  this  is  the 
same  creature?  And  how  do  you  happen  to  know 
Joe  Thomson?"  York  inquired,  blandly,  veiling 
his  curious  interest  with  indifference. 

"I  happened  to  meet  both  of  these  country  gen 
tlemen  on  a  certain  day.  In  fact,  I  dined  al 
fresco  with  one  when  I  was  riding  in  my  chariot, 
incognito,  alone,  unattended  by  gallant  outriders, 
about  my  blank  blank  rural  estate  in  the  heart  of 
the  Sage  Brush  country  of  Kansas.  The  'blank 
blank'  stands  for  a  term  not  profane  at  all,  but 
one  I  never  want  to  hear  again — that  awful  word 
'blowout.'" 

Jerry's  humor  was  mixed  with  sarcasm  and  con 
fusion,  both  of  which  troubled  the  mind  of  her 
companion.  This  girl  had  so  many  sides.  She  was 
so  unused  to  the  Western  ways  and  he  was  trying 
to  teach  her  a  deeper  understanding  of  human 
needs,  and  the  human  values  regardless  of  geog 
raphy,  when  she  suddenly  revealed  a  self-posses 
sion  telling  of  scraps  of  her  experience  in  a  matter- 

210 


THE    SNARE    OF    THE    FOWLER 

of -fact  way;  and  yet  a  confusion  for  some  deeper 
reason  possessed  her  at  certain  angles.  Why? 
That  mention  of  Joe  Thomson  was  annoying  to 
York.  Why?  Jerry's  assumed  familiarity  with 
such  a  hermit  outcast  as  the  old  fisherman  was 
puzzling.  Why?  York  must  get  back  to  solid 
ground  at  once.  This  girl  was  throwing  him  off 
his  feet.  Clearly  she  was  not  going  to  chatter 
idly  of  all  her  experiences.  She  could  know  things 
and  not  tell  them. 

"Seriously,  Jerry,  there  are  no  geographical  lim 
its  for  culture  and  strength  of  character.  If  you 
stay  here  long  enough  you  will  appreciate  that," 
he  began  again  where  he  had  thrown  himself  off 
the  trail  to  avoid  a  preachment. 

"Yes,"  Jerry  agreed,  with  the  same  degree  of 
seriousness. 

"See,  coming  yonder."  York  pointed  up  the 
trail  to  where  a  much-worn  automobile  came 
chuffing  down  the  shaly  road  toward  the  ford  of 
Kingussie  Creek.  "That  is  Thelma  Ekblad  and 
her  crippled  brother  Paul.  If  you  look  right  you 
will  see  the  same  lines  of  courage  and  sweetness 
in  his  face  that  are  in  my  sister's.  And  yet,  al 
though  their  lives  have  been  cast  in  widely  dif 
ferent  planes,  their  crosses  are  the  same  and  they 
have  lifted  them  in  the  same  way." 

Jerry  hadn't  really  seen  the  lines  in  Laura 
Macpherson's  face,  because  she  had  been  too  full 
of  her  own  troubles.  With  York's  words  she  felt 

211 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

a  sense  of  remorse.  Finding  fault  with  herself  was 
new  to  her  and  it  made  her  very  uncomfortable. 
Also  this  girl  coming,  this  Thelma  Ekblad,  was  the 
one  whom  Mrs.  Bahrr  had  said  York  had  pretended 
to  be  interested  in  once.  Jerry  had  remembered 
every  word  of  Stellar  Bahrr 's  gossipy  tongue,  be 
cause  her  mind  had  been  in  that  high-strung, 
tense  condition  last  night  to  receive  and  hold  im 
pressions  unconsciously,  like  a  sensitized  plate. 
The  thought  now  made  her  peculiarly  unhappy. 

"Joe  Thomson's  farm  is  next  to  hers.  Some 
day  I'll  tell  you  her  story.  It  is  a  story — a  real- 
life  drama — and  his." 

York's  words  added  another  degree  to  Jerry's 
disturbed  mental  frame. 

"How  do  you  do,  Thelma?  Hello,  Paul!  Fine 
weather  for  cutting  alfalfa.  My  machines  are  at  it 
this  morning."  York  greeted  the  occupants  of  the 
car  cordially. 

"Good  morning,  York.  We  are  rushing  a  piece 
of  the  mower  up  to  the  shop.  Had  a  breakdown 
an  hour  ago." 

Thelma  was  tanned  brown,  but  her  fair  braids 
gleamed  about  her  uncovered  head,  and  when  she 
smiled  a  greeting  her  fine  white  teeth  were  worth 
seeing.  Paul  Ekblad  waved  a  thin  white  hand  as 
the  car  passed  the  two  on  horseback,  and  the  deli 
cate  lines  of  his  pale,  studious  face  justified  York's 
comparison  of  it  with  Laura  Macpherson's.  Jerry 

saw  her  hostess  at  that  moment  in  a  new  light. 

212 


THE    SNARE    OF    THE    FOWLER 

Burdened  for  the  moment  as  she  was  under  the 
discomfort  of  what  seemed  half-consciously  to  re 
buke  the  frivolous  girl  that  she  dimly  knew  herself 
to  be,  the  sudden  memory  of  her  resolve  declared 
to  Joe  Thomson  in  the  shadow-flecked  porch  the 
night  before  came  as  a  balm  and  a  stimulant  in 
one,  to  give  her  purpose,  self-respect,  and  peace. 

Thus  it  was  that  Jerry  came  in  to  "Castle 
Cluny"  at  high  noon  the  picture  of  health  and 
high  spirits,  shaming  Laura  Macpherson's  doubt 
and  sorrow  which  her  morning  had  brought  her. 
Laura  was  thoroughly  well-bred,  and  she  had, 
beyond  that,  a  strong  and  virtuous  heritage  of 
Scotch  blood  that  made  for  uprightness  and  sin 
cerity.  With  one  effort  she  swept  out  of  her  mind 
all  that  had  harassed  it  since  the  cup  episode  at 
the  breakfast-table,  establishing  anew  within  her 
understanding  the  force  of  her  brother's  admoni 
tion  concerning  any  affiliation  with  the  Big  Dipper, 
the  town  meddler  and  trouble-maker. 

Late  that  afternoon,  as  Laura  sat  sewing  in 
the  shade  of  the  honeysuckle-vines,  Stellar  Bahrr 
hurried  across  lots  again  and  hitched  cautiously 
up  to  the  side  door.  Listening  a  moment,  she 
heard  the  sound  of  Laura's  scissors  falling  on  the 
cement  floor  of  the  porch,  and  Laura's  impatient 
exclamation,  "There  you  go  again!"  as  she  reached 
to  pick  them  up  and  examine  the  points  of  their 
blades. 

Stellar  hitched  cautiously  a  little  further  along 

213 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

the  wall,  and  stood  in  the  shade  of  the  house,  out 
side  the  porch  vines. 

"Laury,"  she  called,  in  a  sibilant  voice,  "I  jis' 
run  in  to  say  I  won't  need  that  money  at  all.  I'm 
goin'  to  go  out  sewin',  an'  I  can  git  all  I  can  do, 
now  the  wheat  harves'  promises  so  well.  Ever'- 
body's  spending  money  on  clo'es  an*  a  lot  of  sum 
mer  an'  fall  sewin'  goin'  to  rot,  you  might  say. 
I'll  be  jis'  blind  busy,  an'  I  can  sew  better  than 
I  can  bake  or  trim.  But  I'm  same  obliged." 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  Laura  must  not  be 
rude,  at  any  cost. 

"No,  I  can't.  I  must  run  back.  My  light 
bread's  raisin'  and  it  '11  raise  the  ruff  if  I  don't 
work  the  meanness  out  of  it." 

Just  then  Jerry  Swaim  came  bounding  through 
the  hall  doorway.  "Look  here,  Laura!  See  what 
I  have  found."  She  held  up  her  beaded  hand-bag 
and  pulled  the  stuffed  silken  purse  out  of  it.  "Now 
how  did  it  ever  get  in  there?  I'm  a  good  many 
things,  but  I  never  knew  I  was  a  shoplifter," 
Jerry  declared,  laughingly,  a  bit  of  confused  blush 
making  her  prettier  than  usual. 

"Why — why — "  Laura  was  embarrassed,  not 
for  Jerry's  sake,  but  on  account  of  those  steel  hooks 
thrusting  themselves  into  her  back  through  the 
honeysuckle- vines. 

"Say,  Laury,  I  jis'  wanted  to  say  I'm  goin'  to 
Mis'  Lenwell's  first.  Good-by."  Stellar  Bahrr's 
voice,  sharp  and  thin,  cut  through  the  vines. 

£14 


THE    SNARE    OF    THE    FOWLER 

As  Laura  turned  to  reply  Jerry  saw  her  fair  face 
redden,  and  her  voice  was  almost  harsh  as  she 
spoke  clearly,  to  be  well  heard. 

"I  remember  now.  I  must  have  put  it  in  there 
by  mistake  when  you  were  down-town  yesterday 
afternoon.  I  guess  I  thought  it  was  my  bag." 

Mrs.  Bahrr,  turning  to  go,  had  caught  sight  of 
Jerry's  hand-bag  through  the  leaves,  and  remem 
bered  perfectly  that  Jerry  had  carried  it  with  her 
down-town  the  day  before,  and  how  well  it 
matched  the  beaded  trimming  of  her  parasol,  her 
wide-brimmed  chiffon  hat,  and  the  sequins  of  her 
sash  trimmings  against  her  silk  walking-skirt. 

Jerry  recalled  taking  the  bag  with  her,  too,  and 
she  recalled  just  then  what  Mrs.  Stellar  Bahrr  had 
hinted  about  Laura  not  wanting  York  to  admire 
other  women.  Why  did  that  thought  come  to  the 
girl's  mind  just  now?  Was  the  wish  of  the  evil 
mind  of  the  woman  hitching  away  across  lots  and 
corkscrewing  down  alleyways  projecting  itself  so 
far  as  this? 


XI 


AN   INTERLUDE   IN   "EDEN** 


AsT  interlude  should  be  brief.  This  one  ran 
through  a  few  midsummer  days  with  amaz 
ing  rapidity,  considering  that  in  its  duration  the 
current  of  a  life  was  changed  from  one  channel, 
whither  it  had  been  tending  for  almost  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  to  another  and  widely  different 
course  that  ran  away  from  the  very  goal-mark 
of  all  its  years  of  inspiring  ambition. 

It  was  late  afternoon  of  a  July  day.  Jerusha 
Darby  sat  in  the  rose-arbor,  fanning  and  rocking 
in  rhythmic  motion.  The  rose-vines  had  ceased 
to  bloom.  Their  thinning  foliage  was  augmented 
now  by  the  heavier  shade  of  thrifty  moon-vines. 

Midsummer  found  "Eden"  no  less  restful  and 
luxuriant  in  its  July  setting  than  it  was  in  the 
freshness  of  June. 

The  afternoon  train  had  crawled  lazily  up  the 
Winnowoc  Valley  on  schedule  time,  permitting  Eu 
gene  Wellington,  in  white  flannels,  white  oxfords, 
and  pink-pin-striped  white  silk  shirt,  fresh  from 
shave  and  shower-bath,  to  come  on  schedule  time 

216 


AN    INTERLUDE    IN    "EDEN" 

to  the  rose-arbor  for  a  conference  with  Mrs. 
Darby. 

The  swift  flow  of  events  had  not  outwardly  af 
fected  the  handsome  young  man.  The  time  of 
the  early  June  roses  had  found  him  poor  in 
worldly  goods,  but  rich  in  a  trained  mind,  a 
developed  genius,  a  yearning  after  all  things 
beautiful,  a  faith  in  divine  Providence,  abounding 
confidence  in  his  own  power  to  win  to  the  mastery 
in  his  beloved  art,  and  glorying  in  his  freedom  to 
do  the  thing  he  chose  to  do.  It  found  him  in  love, 
and  the  almost  accepted  lover  of  a  beautiful,  wil 
ful,  magnetic  girl — a  girl  with  a  sturdy  courage 
in  things  wherein  he  was  lacking;  a  frivolous, 
untrained  girl,  yet  with  surprising  dependableness 
in  any  crisis.  It  found  him  the  favorite  nephew  of 
a  quiet,  uninteresting,  rich  old  money-grubbing 
uncle  and  his  dominant,  but  highly  approving 
wife,  whose  elegant  home  was  always  open  to 
him  the  while  he  felt  himself  a  pensioner  on  its 
hospitality. 

Mid-July  found  him,  in  effect,  the  master  where 
he  had  been  the  poor  relation;  the  rich  uncle 
gone  forever  from  earthly  affairs;  a  dominant 
aunt  st;!l  ruling — so  she  fancied — as  she  had  al 
ways  ruled,  but  with  the  consciousness  of  her 
first  defeated  purpose  rankling  bitterly  within  her. 
It  found  Eugene  still  in  love  with  the  same  beau 
tiful,  wilful  girl,  but  far  from  any  assurance  of 
being  a  really  accepted  lover.  It  found  him  in- 

15  217 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

sensibly  forgetting  the  aspirations  of  a  lifetime 
and  beginning,  little  by  little,  to  grasp  after  the 
Egyptian  flesh-pots.  Life  was  fast  becoming  a 
round  of  easy  days,  whose  routine  duties  were 
more  than  compensated  by  its  charming  domestic 
settings.  The  one  unsatisfied  desire  was  for  the 
presence  of  the  bright,  inspiring  girl  who  had  left 
a  void  when  she  went  away,  for  whose  return  all 
"Eden"  was  waiting. 

The  swift  course  of  events  had  created  other 
changes.  Some  growths  are  slow,  and  some  amaz 
ingly  swift,  depending  upon  the  nature  of  the  life- 
germ  in  the  seed  and  the  soil  of  the  planting.  In 
Eugene  Wellington  the  love  of  beauty  found  its 
comfort  in  his  present  planting.  It  was  easier  to 
stay  where  beauty  was  ready-made  than  to  go 
out  and  create  it  in  some  less  lovely  surroundings. 
Combine  with  this  artistic  temperament  an  in 
herent  lack  of  initiative  and  courage,  a  less  re 
sistant  force,  and  the  product  is  sure.  Moreover, 
this  very  falling  away  from  the  incentive  to  artistic 
endeavor  exacted  its  penalty  in  a  dulled  spiritu 
ality.  Whoever  denies  the  allegiance  due,  in  how 
ever  small  a  measure,  to  the  call  of  art  within  him 
pays  always  the  same  price — a  pound  of  tender 
bleeding  flesh  nearest  his  heart.  For  Eugene 
Wellington  the  Shylock  knife  was  sharpening 
itself. 

This  July  afternoon  there  were  no  misgivings  in 
his  soul,  however — no  black  shadows  of  failure 

218 


AN    INTERLUDE    IN    "EDEN" 

ahead.  All  the  serpents  of  "Eden"  were  very 
good  little  snakes  indeed.  After  a  while  he  would 
paint  again,  leisurely,  exquisitely;  especially  would 
he  paint  when  Jerry  came  home. 

As  he  lighted  a  cigarette,  a  recent  -custom  of  his, 
and  strolled  down  the  shady  way  to  the  rose- 
arbor  to  meet  Mrs.  Darby,  he  drew  deep  draughts 
of  satisfaction.  It  had  been  an  unusually  good  day 
for  him.  Unusually  good.  Business  had  made  it 
necessary  to  open  some  closed  records  in  the  late 
Cornelius  Darby's  affairs,  records  that  Mrs. 
Jerusha  Darby  herself  had  not  yet  examined. 
They  put  a  new  light  on  the  whole  Darby  situation. 
They  went  further  and  threw  some  side-lights  on 
the  late  Jim  Swaim's  transactions.  Altogether 
they  were  worth  knowing.  And  Eugene,  wielding 
a  high  hand  with  himself,  had,  once  for  all,  stilled 
his  finer  sense  of  fitness  in  his  right  to  know  these 
things.  He  had  also  made  rapid  strides  in  this 
brief  time  toward  comprehending  business  ethics 
as  differing  from  church  ethics  and  artistic  ethics. 
Face  to  face  in  a  conflict  with  Jerry  Swaim,  with 
Aunt  Jerry  Darby,  with  his  conscience,  his  God, 
he  was  never  sure  of  himself.  But  as  to  managing 
things,  once  he  had  shut  his  doors  and  barred 
them,  he  was  confident.  It  was  a  truly  confident 
Gene  who  stepped  promptly  into  the  rose-arbor 
on  the  moment  expected.  To  the  old  woman 
waiting  for  him  there  he  was  good  to  look  upon. 

"I'm  glad  you  are  on  time,  Gene,"  Mrs.  Darby 

219 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

began,  rocking  and  fanning  more  deliberately. 
"I'm  ready  now  to  settle  matters  once  for  all." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Jerry,"  Eugene  responded,  fitting 
himself  gracefully  into  the  settings  of  this  summer 
retreat,  with  a  look  of  steady  penetration  coming 
into  his  eyes  as  he  took  in  the  face  before  him. 

"Any  news  from  the  Argonaut  to-day?"  he 
asked,  at  length,  as  Mrs.  Darby  sat  silently 
rocking. 

"Not  a  line.  I  guess  Jerry  is  waiting  for  me  to 
ask  her  to  come  back.  She  must  be  through  with 
her  romantic  fling  by  this  time,  and  about  out  of 
money,  too.  So  now's  the  time  to  act  and  settle 
matters,  as  I  say,  once  for  all.  Jerry  must  come 
home." 

"Amen,  and  amen,"  Eugene  agreed,  fervently. 

"And  if  she  won't  come  home  herself,  she  must 
be  brought — to  see  things  as  we  do.  Must,  I  say, 
Eugene." 

"I'm  glad  she  didn't  say  'brought  home*  if 
she's  going  to  send  me  after  her,"  the  young  man 
thought.  The  memory  of  having  been  sent  after 
Jerry  in  years  gone  by,  and  of  coming  back  empty- 
handed,  but  full- hearted  and  sore-headed,  were 
still  strong  within  him.  "How  shall  we  make  her 
see?"  he  inquired. 

Mrs.  Darby  rocked  vigorously  for  a  few  min 
utes.  Then  she  brought  her  chair  to  a  dead  stop 
and  laid  down  the  law  without  further  shifting  of 

anchors. 

220 


AN    INTERLUDE    IN    "EDEN" 

"All  my  property,  my  real  estate,  country  and 
city,  my  bank  stocks,  my  government  bonds,  my 
business  investments — everything — is  mine  to  keep 
for  my  lifetime,  and  to  pass  by  will  to  whomsoever 
I  choose.  Of  course  it's  only  natural  I  should 
choose  the  only  member  of  my  family  now  living 
to  succeed  to  my  possessions." 

How  the  "my"  sounded  out  as  the  woman 
talked  of  her  god,  to  whose  service  she  was  bound, 
but  of  whose  blessings  she  understood  so  little! 

Eugene  sat  waiting  and  thinking. 

"Of  course,  whoever  marries  Jerry  with  my  ap 
proval  will  come  into  a  fortune  worth  having." 

"He  certainly  will,"  Eugene  declared,  fervently. 

A  clear  vision  of  Jerry  and  June  roses  swept  his 
soul  with  refreshing  sweetness,  followed  by  the  no 
less  clear  imagery  of  Uncle  Cornie  stepping  slowly 
but  persistently  at  the  wrong  moment  after  his 
wabbling  discus.  He  looked  away  down  the  lilac- 
walk,  unconsciously  expecting  the  familiar,  silent, 
uninteresting  face  and  figure  to  come  again  to 
view.  To  the  artist  spirit  in  him  the  old  man  was 
there  as  real  to  vision  as  he  had  been  on  that  last 
— lost — June  day. 

"You  are  thinking  of  Jerry  herself.  I  am  think 
ing  of  her  inheritance,  which  is  a  deal  more  sensi 
ble,  although  Jerry  is  an  unusually  interesting 
and  surprising  girl,"  the  old  woman  was  saying. 

"Unusually,"  Eugene  echoed.  "And  in  case 
you  do  not  make  a  will?" 

£21 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

The  young  man  was  still  looking  down  the  lilac- 
walk  as  he  asked  the  question,  seemingly  oblivious 
to  the  narrow  eyes  of  Mrs.  Darby  scrutinizing  his 
face. 

"I  have  already  made  it.  If  things  do  not 
please  me  I  shall  change  it.  I  may  do  that  half 
a  dozen  times  if  I  choose  before  I'm  through 
with  it.  Now  listen  to  me."  The  woman  spoke 
sharply. 

Eugene  listened,  wondering  the  while  what  sort 
of  lightning-rod  she  carried,  to  speak  with  such 
assurance  of  all  she  meant  to  do  before  she  was 
through  with  the  transactions  of  this  life.  Uncle 
Cornie  had  not  been  so  well  defended. 

"I  want  you  to  write  to  Jerry  to  come  home. 
You  can  pay  her  expenses.  She  will  take  the 
money  quicker  from  you  than  from  me.  She's  as 
proud  as  Lucifer  in  some  things,  once  she's  set.  But 
she's  in  love  with  you,  and  where  a  girl's  in  love 
she  listens." 

Eugene  looked  up  quickly.  "Are  you  sure?" 
he  asked,  eagerly. 

"Of  course  I  am!  Why  shouldn't  I  know  love 
when  I  see  it?"  Mrs.  Darby  inquired. 

Yes,  why? 

"But  you  mustn't  give  in,  nor  plead  with  her. 
Just  tell  her  how  well  fixed  you  are,  and  how  much 
she  is  missing  here,  and  that  you  will  wait  her 
time,  only  she  must  come  back,  and  promise  to 
stay  here,  or  I'll  cut  my  will  to  bits,  I  certainly 

222 


AN    INTERLUDE    IN    "EDEN" 

shall.  I'll  write  myself  to  York  Macpherson.  He's 
level-headed  and  honorable  as  truth.  If  he  was 
dead  in  love  with  Jerry  himself — as  he  no  doubt 
is  by  this  time — he'd  just  put  it  all  away  if  he 
found  out  he  was  denying  me  my  rights.  I'll  put 
it  up  to  his  honor.  And  so  with  him  at  that  end 
of  the  line,  and  you  here,  and  me  really  moving 
the  chessmen,  it  can't  be  a  losing  game,  Eugene. 
It  simply  can't.  Jerry  may  not  get  tired  of  her 
new  playthings  right  away,  but  she  will  after  a 
while.  It  isn't  natural  for  her  to  take  to  a  life  so 
awfully  different  from  her  bringing  up.  When 
the  new  wears  off  she'll  come  home,  even  if  neces 
sity  didn't  drive  her,  as  it's  bound  to  sooner  or 
later.  She's  nearly  out  of  money  right  now,  and 
she  can't  sponge  off  the  Macphersons  forever  and 
be  Jim  Swaim's  child.  Is  everything  clear  to  you 
now?" 

Eugene  threw  away  his  cigarette  and  lighted  a 
fresh  one,  his  face  the  while  as  expressionless  as 
ever  the  dry,  dull  face  of  Cornelius  Darby  had 
been.  At  last  he  answered: 

"Mrs.  Darby  has  made  a  will,  presumably  in 
favor  of  her  niece,  Geraldine  Swaim — a  will  sub 
ject  to  replacement  by  any  number  of  wills  creating 
other  beneficiaries.  In  any  event,  Mrs.  Darby 
proposes  to  have  a  voice  in  the  final  disposition  of 
her  property." 

Mrs.  Darby  nodded  emphatically.  "I  certainly 
do." 

223 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

Eugene  smiled  approval  of  such  good  judgment. 
"You  are  right,  Mrs.  Darby.  What  is  your  own 
you  should  control,  always.  But,  frankly,  Aunt 
Jerry,  it  is  Geraldine  Swaim  herself  who  is  my 
fortune — if  I  can  ever  acquire  it." 

"You  don't  object  to  her  prospects,  I  hope," 
Mrs.  Darby  interrupted,  with  a  twinkle  in  her 
eye. 

"I  couldn't,  for  her  sake.  And  I  am  artistic 
enough  to  love  the  charm  of  an  estate  like  this; 
and  sensible  enough,  maybe,  to  appreciate  the  in 
fluence  and  opportunity  that  are  afforded  by  the 
other  financial  assets  of  the  Darby  possessions. 
I'll  do  all  in  my  power  to  bring  Jerry  back  to  a 
life  of  ease  and  absence  of  all  anxiety  and  responsi 
bility.  Shall  I  go  out  to  Kansas  after  her?" 

An  uncomfortable  feeling  about  that  York 
Macpherson  had  begun  now  to  pull  hard  upon 
Eugene's  complacent  assurance,  although  he  had 
rebelled  a  few  minutes  ago  at  the  thought  of 
going  anywhere  after  Jerry. 

"Never,"  Mrs.  Darby  responded.  "It  would 
just  give  her  another  chance  for  adventure  and 
seem  to  acknowledge  that  we  couldn't  do  without 
her." 

In  truth,  Mrs.  Darby  was  shrewd  enough  to 
know  that  with  Eugene  on  the  ground  she  could 
not  count  on  York  Macpherson  as  her  ally.  York 
would  naturally  champion  Jerry's  cause,  and  she 
knew  that  Eugene  Wellington  would  be  no  match 


AN    INTERLUDE    IN    "EDEN" 

for  the  diplomatic  man  of  affairs  whom  she  had 
known  intimately  from  his  childhood. 

"Aunt  Jerry,  how  much  do  you  know  of  the 
value  of  this  Swaim  estate?"  Eugene  asked,  sud 
denly. 

"Very  little.  Cornelius  told  me  that  he  had  a 
full  account  of  it.  That  was  on  the  very  day  he 
was — he  passed  away.  The  papers,  except  the 
one  Jerry  found  here  the  day  after  the  funeral, 
have  all  been  mislaid." 

"Then  I'd  advise  you  to  write  to  this  Macpher- 
son  person  and  find  out  exactly  what  we  have  to 
fight  against,"  the  young  man  suggested.  "Mean 
time  I'll  write  to  Jerry.  I'm  sure  she  should  be 
ready  to  listen  now.  Ah1  I  claim  to  know  of  that 
beastly  region  out  West  I  learned  from  my  father, 
but  that  is  enough  for  me.  If  there  were  really  a 
bit  of  landscape  worth  the  cost  of  the  canvas  I 
might  go  out  there  and  paint  it.  But  who  cares 
to  paint  in  only  two  colors,  blue  one  half — 
that's  sky,  unclouded,  monotonous;  and  chrome 
yellow,  the  other  half  —  that's  land.  I  could 
paint  the  side  of  the  cattle-barn  over  yonder 
half  yellow,  half  blue,  and  put  as  much  expres 
sion  into  it." 

Mrs.  Darby  listened  approvingly.  "I'm  very 
thankful  that  you  see  things  so  sensibly.  The 
sooner  you  replace  what  isn't  worth  while  with 
what  is  the  sooner  you  will  know  you  are  a 
success  hi  your  business.  We  will  write  those 

225 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

letters  to-night.  I'm  having  your  favorite  dishes 
for  dinner  now,  and  we'll  be  served  here.  It  is  so 
pleasant  here  at  this  time  of  day.  I'll  go  and  see 
to  things  right  away,  and  we'll  have  everything 
brought  out  pretty  soon." 

The  owner  of  all  this  dainty  comfort  and  restful- 
ness  and  beauty  hurried  away,  leaving  Eugene 
Wellington  alone  in  the  rose-arbor — alone  with 
memories  of  Jerry  Swaim,  and  Uncle  Cornie,  and 
life,  and  love,  and  hope  and  high  ambition,  and 
himself — the  self  that  a  man  must  go  right  with, 
if  he  goes  with  him  at  all. 

For  a  long  half-hour  he  sat  there  in  the  rose- 
arbor,  the  appealing  call  of  his  divine  gift  fill 
ing  his  artist  soul.  Then  his  judgment  prevailed. 
What  he  most  wanted  to  have  was  here,  ready  to 
have  now — and  to  hold  later  with  only  a  little 
patient  waiting.  A  few  weeks,  or  months,  or 
maybe  even  a  year,  a  run  of  four  swift  seasons, 
and  the  girl  of  his  heart's  heart  would  come  back 
into  her  own,  and  find  him  ready  for  her  coming. 
That  impossible  York  was  not  to  be  considered. 
Jerry  was  no  fool,  if  she  was  sometimes  a  bit  foolish 
in  her  pranks.  And  he,  Eugene  Wellington,  had 
only  this  day  learned  of  the  whole  Swaim  situa 
tion,  what  was  vastly  valuable  to  know.  Mean 
time,  his  the  task  to  keep  that  precious  Jerusha 
Darby  will  intact;  or,  failing  in  that,  came  the 
more  difficult  and  delicate  task  of  controlling  or 
holding  back  the  pen  that  would  write  another 

226 


AN    INTERLUDE    IN    "EDEN" 

will.  And  in  the  end  Jerry  would  love  him  for 
ever  for  what  he  would  save  for  her — for  her — 

The  memory  of  what  he  had  learned  that  day 
in  the  business  house  in  the  city  came  with  its 
testimony  that  he  was  shaping  his  life  course  well. 
Only  one  little  foxy  fear  dodged  about  in  his 
mind — the  fear  that  Jerry — the  Jerry  he  knew, 
lovable  in  spite  of  all  her  little  failings,  beautiful, 
picturesque,  and  surprising — that  this  Jerry,  whom 
he  thought  he  knew  so  well,  might  prove  to  be 
an  unknowable,  unguessable  Jerry  whose  course 
would  baffle  all  his  plans,  his  efforts,  his  heart 
longings.  It  must  not  be.  He  would  prevent 
that.  But  could  he? 

The  coming  of  dainty  viands  with  exquisite  ap 
pointments  gave  nourishment  to  his  ready  appe 
tite,  and  dulled  for  a  time  the  thing  within  him 
that  sometime  must  cry  out  to  power  or  be  sleeked 
down  into  fat  and  unfeeling  subjection. 

That  night  two  letters  were  written  to  New 
Eden,  Kansas,  but  neither  writer  really  knew  the 
reader  to  whom  the  letter  was  written,  nor  meas 
ured  life  purposes  by  the  same  gauge,  so  setting 
anew  the  world-old  stage  for  a  drama  in  human 
affairs  whose  crowning  act  shapes  human  destinies. 


xn 


THIS    SIDE    OF    THE   RUBICON 

TN  the  late  afternoon  of  a  July  Sabbath  Jerry 
-••  Swaim  had  gone  for  a  stroll  along  the  quiet 
outskirts  of  New  Eden.  Laura  was  napping  in 
the  porch  swing,  and  York  had  gone  to  his  office 
in  answer  to  a  telephone  call.  Jerry  was  rarely 
lonely  with  herself  and  she  was  a  good  walker. 
She  was  learning,  too,  the  need  for  being  alone 
with  herself,  for  there  were  many  things  crowding 
into  her  mind  that  demanded  recognition. 

Jerry  attended  church  with  the  Macphersons 
every  Sunday,  but  it  was  a  mere  perfunctory  act 
on  her  part.  To-day  the  minister  was  away.  He 
had  gone  to  the  upper  Sage  Brush  to  officiate  at 
the  funeral  of  Mrs.  Nell  Belkap  that  had  been 
Nell  Poser,  she  of  the  tow  hair  and  big-lunging 
baby.  She  had  died  of  congestion,  following  over 
heating  in  cooking  for  threshing-hands  for  her 
mother,  her  father  being  the  kind  of  man  that 
objected  to  hired  help  for  "wimmin  folks."  All 
that  was  nothing  to  Jerry,  who  found  herself  won 
dering,  in  a  vague  sort  of  way,  just  where  that 

228 


THIS    SIDE    OF    THE    RUBICON 

baby  would  sprawl  itself,  unattached  to  its  moth 
er's  anchorage.  Babies  were  not  in  Jerry's  scheme 
of  things  at  all. 

The  substitute  minister  was  more  interesting  to 
think  about.  He  had  a  three-piece  country  charge 
over  which  to  spread  the  Gospel,  "Summit  School- 
House,"  "Slack  Crick  Church,"  and  "Locust 
Grove  Grange."  He  said  "have  went"  and  he 
called  the  members  of  one  of  Saint  Paul's  churches 
"The  Thessalonnykins."  And  he  really  didn't 
know  the  Lord's  Prayer  correctly,  for  he  said 
"forgive  us  our  trespasses,"  instead  of  "our 
debts,"  as  dear  accurate  Saint  Matthew  has 
written  it. 

Jerry's  mind  was  on  him  as  an  aside,  on  him, 
and  that  Paul  Ekblad  whom  she  caught  sight  of 
in  the  Ekblad  car  with  Thelma.  They  had  stopped 
a  minute  to  speak  with  York  Macpherson  as  they 
were  on  their  way  to  that  up-country  Poser  funeral. 
Why  should  Paul  Ekblad  go  so  far  to  a  funeral? 

Jerry  strolled  aimlessly  along  the  smooth  road 
leading  out  to  the  New  Eden  cemetery,  her  bead- 
trimmed  parasol  shading  her  bare  head,  and  her 
pale-green  organdie  gown  making  her  appear  very 
summery.  Jerry  had  the  trick  of  fitting  all  weather 
except  the  heated,  sand-filled  days  of  mid- 
June  on  a  freight-train,  which  condition  Junius 
Brutus  Ponk  declared  "was  enough  to  muss  a 
angel's  wings  an'  make  them  divine  partial-eclipse 
angel  draperies  look  dingier  than  dish-rags." 

229 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

There  were  half  a  dozen  well-grown  cottonwood- 
trees  in  the  cemetery,  with  rows  of  promising  little 
elms,  catalpas,  and  box-elders  all  symmetrically 
set.  The  grass  was  brown,  but  free  from  weeds; 
the  walks  were  only  smooth  paths.  But  the  shade 
of  the  cottonwood  group,  and  the  quiet  of  the  place, 
seemed  inviting.  Every  foot  of  the  wind-swept 
elevation  was  visible  to  the  whole  town,  but  the 
distance  was  guarantee  for  undisturbed  medita 
tion.  Jerry  had  no  interest  in  cemeteries.  She 
had  rarely  visited  the  corner  of  "Eden"  where 
the  few  elect  by  family  ties  had  their  last  resting- 
place.  She  walked  down  the  grassy  paths  toward 
the  largest  cottonwoods,  now,  indifferent  alike  to 
the  humble  headstone  and  the  expensive  and  some 
times  grotesque  granite  memorial.  By  the  tallest 
shaft  in  the  place,  designated  by  Stellar  Bahrr  as 
"Granddad  Poser's  monniment,"  she  sat  down  in 
the  shade  of  the  biggest  trees,  and  looked  out 
at  New  Eden  in  its  Sabbath-afternoon  nap; 
at  the  winding  Sage  Brush  and  the  green  and 
yellow  fields,  and  black  hedgerows,  and  rolling 
prairies,  with  purple-shadowed  draws  and  pale- 
brown  swells,  and  groves  about  distant  farm 
houses.  She  sat  still  for  a  long  time,  and  she  was 
so  lost  in  this  view  that  she  did  not  hear  steps 
approaching  until  Mr.  Ponk  was  almost  beside  her. 

"Good  afternoon,  Miss  Swaim.  Takin'  a  con 
stitutional?  They  ain't  no  Swaims  laid  away  out 
here  I  reckon." 

230 


THIS    SIDE    OF    THE    RUBICON 

"Oh  no,"  Jerry  replied.  "I  shouldn't  come  here 
for  that  if  there  were." 

Something  about  Ponk  always  made  her  good- 
natured.  He  was  so  grotesquely  impossible  to 
her — a  caricature  cut  from  some  comic  magazine, 
rounded  out  and  animated. 

"Say  you  wouldn't?  Now  that's  real  queer." 
The  short  man  opened  his  little  eyes  wide  with 
surprise.  "Now  I  soar  down  here  regular  every 
Sunday  evenin'  of  the  world,  summer  and  winter." 

"What  for?"  Jerry  asked,  looking  up  at  the 
speaker  with  curiosity. 

New  Eden  was  still  in  that  stage  when  a  funeral 
was  a  public  event.  And  the  belief  was  still  main 
tained  that  the  dead  out  in  the  cemetery  must  be 
conscious  of  every  attention  or  lack  of  it  shown 
to  their  memory  by  visits  and  flowers,  and  the 
price  of  tombstones.  In  a  word,  to  the  New  Eden 
living,  the  New  Eden  dead  were  not  really  in  the 
Great  Hereafter,  but  here,  demanding  considera 
tion  in  the  social  economy  of  the  community. 

Ponk  was  more  shocked  at  Jerry's  query  than 
she  could  begin  to  comprehend,  and  his  interest 
in  her  and  pity  for  her  took  a  still  stronger  grip 
on  life. 

"Why,  Miss  Swaim,  I  come  out  here  to  see  my 
mother.  I  'ain't  never  failed  to  bring  her  a  flower 
in  summer,  or  a  green  leaf  in  winter,  one  single 
Sunday  since  she  was  laid  out  there  on  the  south 
slope  one  Easter  day  eight  Aprils  ago." 

231 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"But  she  isn't  there."  Jerry  spoke  gently  now, 
realizing  that  she  had  hurt  him  unintentionally. 

"She  is  to  me,  an*  I'd  ruther  think  it  thataway 
an'  feel  like  I  was  callin*  every  Sunday,  never  for- 
gettin',"  Ponk  said,  sadly. 

"Where's  your  dead  to  you,  Miss  Swaim?"  he 
asked,  after  a  pause. 

Jerry,  who  was  gazing  down  the  Sage  Brush 
Valley,  turned  slowly  at  his  words,  her  big  eyes 
luminous  with  tears. 

"They  are  not."  She  waved  a  hand  against 
viewless  air. 

"Oh  yes,  they  are,  walkin'  beside  you  every  day, 
lovin'  you  and  proud  of  you!  A  good  mother 
just  lives  on  an'  keeps  doin'  good,  and  so  does  a 
father,  if  you  let  'em."  Ponk  hesitated,  and  his 
moon-round  face  was  flushed.  "I  ain't  tryin'  to 
preach,"  he  added,  hastily.  "They's  some  things, 
though,  we  all  got  to  cling  to  or  else  get  hustled 
off  our  feet  into  a  big  black  void  where  we  just 
sink  and  die.  It  ain't  just  Sage-Brushers,  but  it's 
all  Christians — Baptists  and  Cammylites  and 
High  Church  and  everybody.  It's  safer  to  stand 
in  the  light  than  sink  in  the  bottomless  night. 
But,  say,  look  who's  comin'  an'  see  what's  trailin' 
him.  I  guess  I'll  be  soarin'  back  to  the  hotel  now. 
Pleased  to  meet  you — always  am  pleased."  Ponk 
lifted  his  hat  and  bowed  uncovered,  and  uncovered 
walked  away. 

What  he  had  said  in  the  sincerity  of  his  spiritual 

£32 


THIS    SIDE    OF    THE    RUBICON 

belief  fell  on  fertile  soil  in  the  mind  of  his  listener. 
He  had  preached  a  sermon  to  her  that  was  good 
for  her  to  hear. 

Jerry  looked  out  in  the  direction  he  had  indi 
cated  and  saw  York  Macpherson,  walking  a  bit 
briskly  for  him  and  the  place  and  the  afternoon. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Jerusha  Darby  should 
expect  York  to  be  caught  by  the  charms  of  his 
guest.  As  she  sat  there  in  the  shade  of  the  cotton- 
woods,  where,  in  all  the  cemetery,  the  blue  grass 
grew  rankest,  with  her  pale-green  gown,  her  smooth 
pink  cheeks,  and  the  wavy  masses  of  golden- 
brown  hair  coiled  low  at  the  back  of  her  head, 
York  wondered  if  the  spirit  of  the  wild  rose  in 
bloom  and  the  spirit  of  some  Greek  nymph  had 
not  combined  in  the  personification  before  him. 

At  the  gateway  he  met  Ponk. 

"Why  do  you  run  away?  I  have  a  special-de 
livery  letter  for  Miss  Swaim.  I  thought  I'd  better 
come  and  find  her,  but  that  needn't  interfere  with 

you." 

"Oh,  you  smooth-bore!  But  I  have  to  go, 
anyhow.  I'm  headin'  off  what's  trailin'  you. 
Don't  look  back.  It's  Stellar  Bahrr,  comin'  out  to 
see  who's  been  to  see  their  folks  to-day  and  who's 
neglectin'  'em,  'specially  late  arrivals.  She's  seen 
my  game,  though,  now,  an'  she's  shabbin'  off  to 
the  side  gate,  knowin'  I'd  head  her  back  to  town. 
Say,  York,  she's  after  Miss  Swaim  now.  You 
watch  out.  Them  that's  the  worthlessest  and  has 

16  233 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

the  least  influence  in  a  community  can  start  the 
biggest  fires  burnin*.  Everybody  in  New  Eden's 
been  buffaloed  by  her — just  scared  blue — except 
maybe  us  two.  You  ain't,  I  know,  and  I'm  right 
sure  I  ain't." 

"Ponk,  you  are  as  good  as  you  are  good-look 
ing,"  York  said,  heartily.  "The  Big  Dipper  could 
start  a  tale  of  our  guest  meeting  gentlemen  friends 
in  the  cemetery.  And  yet  for  privacy  it's  about 
like  meeting  them  on  the  sidewalk  before  the  Com 
mercial  Hotel.  However,  she's  started  scandal 
with  less  material.  I  have  business  with  Miss 
Swaim,  so  I'll  walk  home  with  her." 

Jerry  waited  for  her  host  under  the  flickering, 
murmuring  leaves  of  the  cottonwood.  She  had 
seen  some  woman  wandering  diagonally  from  the 
cemetery  road  toward  the  corner  of  the  inclosure, 
but  she  had  no  interest  in  strangers  and  might 
never  have  thought  of  her  again  but  for  a  word  of 
York's  that  day. 

He  had  seen  the  girl  looking  after  Stellar  as  she 
made  a  wide  flank  movement.  A  sense  of  duty 
coupled  with  a  strange  interest  in  Jerry,  for  which 
he  had  as  yet  given  no  account  to  himself,  was 
urging  him  to  tell  her,  as  he  had  told  his  sister, 
to  have  no  traffic  with  the  town's  greatest  liability, 
but  with  all  of  Ponk's  warning  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  speak  now. 

"May  I  sit  here  with  you  awhile?"  he  asked, 
lifting  his  hat  as  he  spoke. 

£34 


THIS    SIDE    OF    THE    RUBICON 

"Certainly.  It  is  so  quiet  and  peaceful  out  here, 
and,  as  I  have  no  associations  with  this  place,  I 
can  sit  here  without  being  unhappy  or  irreverent," 
Jerry  replied. 

"I  came  out  to  find  you.  There  are  callers  at 
home  now,  so  I'll  give  you  my  message  here, 
unless  you  want  to  follow  Mr.  Ponk's  example 
and  'soar'  off  home." 

"That  man  interests  me,"  Jerry  declared.  "He 
said  some  good  things  about  his  mother  just  now. 
And  yet  he's  so — so  funny." 

"Oh,  Ponk's  outside  is  against  him.  If  he  could 
be  husked  out  of  himself  and  let  the  community 
get  down  to  the  kernel  of  him  he  is  really  fine 
wheat,"  York  said,  conscious  the  while  that  he 
had  not  meant,  for  some  reason,  to  praise  the 
strutting  fellow.  Yet  he  had  never  felt  so  toward 
the  little  man  before. 

"I  have  a  special-delivery  letter  for  you  which 
came  this  afternoon.  While  you  read  it  I'll  go 
out  to  the  gate  and  speak  to  the  Ekblads,  coming 
yonder." 

Jerry  read  her  letter — the  one  Eugene  had  writ 
ten  after  his  conference  with  Jerusha  Darby  in 
the  rose-arbor.  In  it  he  had  been  faithful  to  the 
old  woman's  smallest  demands,  but  the  message 
itself  was  a  masterpiece.  It  was  gracefully  writ 
ten,  for  Eugene  Wellington's  penmanship  was  art 
itself;  and  gracefully  worded,  and  it  breathed  the 
perfumes  of  that  lovely  "Eden"  on  every  page. 

235 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

Jerry  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment  in  the  midst 
of  the  reading,  and  the  wind-swept  cemetery  and  all 
the  summer-seared  valley  of  the  Sage  Brush  van 
ished.  The  Macphersons;  Ponk;  Thelma  Ekblad 
in  the  automobile  by  the  cemetery  gate,  holding 
something  in  her  arms,  and  her  fair-haired  brother, 
Paul;  Joe  Thomson  (why  Joe?) — all  were  nothing. 
Before  her  eyes  all  was  Eugene — Eugene  and 
"Eden."  Then  she  read  on  to  the  end.  One 
reading  was  enough.  When  York  came  back  she 
was  sitting  with  the  letter  neatly  folded  into  its 
envelope  again,  lying  in  her  lap. 

York  had  a  shrewd  notion  of  what  that  letter 
contained,  but  there  was  nothing  in  Jerry's  face 
by  which  to  judge  of  its  effect  on  her.  Two  things 
he  was  learning  about  her — one,  that  she  didn't 
tell  all  she  knew,  after  the  manner  of  most  frivo 
lous-minded  girls;  the  other,  that  she  didn't  tell 
anything  until  she  was  fully  ready  to  do  so.  He 
admired  both  traits,  even  though  they  baffled  him. 
In  his  own  pocket  was  Jerusha  Darby's  letter,  also 
specially  delivered.  He  sat  down  by  Jerry  and 
waited  for  her  to  speak. 

"Were  those  the  people  we  saw  on  the  south 
border  of  'Kingussie'?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  York  replied. 

"Do  they  interest  you?"  she  questioned. 

"Very  much." 

"Why?"  Jerry  was  killing  something — time,  or 
thought. 


THIS    SIDE    OF   THE    RUBICON 

"Because,  as  I  told  you  the  other  day,  the  same 
life  problems  come  to  all  grades.  And  life  problems 
are  always  interesting,"  York  declared. 

"Has  Thelma  Ekblad  a  blowout  farm,  too?" 
Jerry's  face  was  serious,  but  her  eyes  betrayed 
her  mood. 

"Better  a  blowout  farm  than  a  blowout  soul," 
York  thought.  "No.  I  wonder  what  she  would 
do  with  it  if  she  had,"  he  said,  aloud. 

"Just  what  I  am  doing,  no  doubt,  since  all  of 
us,  'Colonel's  lady  and  Judy  O'Grady/  are  alike. 
Tell  me  more  about  her,"  Jerry  demanded. 

"She's  talking  against  time  now,  I  know,  but 
I'll  tell  her  a  few  things,"  York  concluded. 

"Jerry,  there  are  not  many  women  like  this 
Norwegian  farmer  girl  who  is  working  her  way 
through  the  State  University  down  at  Lawrence. 
A  few  years  ago  her  brother  Paul  was  in  love  with 
a  girl  up  the  Sage  Brush,  the  daughter  of  a  pros 
perous,  stupid,  stingy  old  ranchman.  Paul  was 
chewed  up  in  a  mowing-machine  one  day  when  the 
horses  got  scared  and  ran  away,  but  his  girl  was 
true  to  him  in  spite  of  her  father's  objections  to 
him.  Then  came  a  woman — a  sharp-tongued  gos 
sip  (she's  over  yonder  now  by  the  side  gate) — who 
managed  to  stir  up  trouble  purely  for  the  infernal 
joy  of  gossip,  I  suppose,  between  this  girl  and 
Thelma.  I  needn't  go  into  detail;  you  probably 
do  not  care  much  for  the  general  outline." 

"Go  on,"  Jerry  commanded. 

£37 


"Well,  it  was  the  rough  course  of  true  love  over 
again.  Between  the  father  and  the  sister  the 
match  was  broken  off,  and  before  things  could  be 
reconciled  the  girl's  father  forced  the  marriage  of 
his  daughter  to  a  worthless  scamp  who  posed  as 
a  rich  man,  or  an  heir  expectant  to  riches.  The 
Ekblads  are  hard-working  farmer  folk.  When  it 
was  too  late  the  misunderstanding  was  cleared  up. 
The  rich  fellow  soon  proved  a  fraud  and  a  ras 
cal  and  a  wife-deserter.  And  the  girl  came  home 
with  her  baby.  Her  father,  as  I  said,  was  too 
stingy  to  hire  help.  So  this  girl-mother  overworked 
in  threshing-time,  and — was  buried  this  afternoon 
up  the  Sage  Brush — old  man  Poser's  daughter, 
Nell  Belkap.  The  Ekblads  have  just  come  from 
the  funeral.  Old  Poser  has  refused  to  care  for 
Nell's  baby  and  intended  to  put  it  in  an  orphan 
asylum.  Thelma  Ekblad  brought  it  home  with 
her.  It  was  in  her  arms  just  now,  and  she's  going 
to  keep  it  and  adopt  it.  When  she's  away  at 
school — she  has  a  year  yet  before  she  graduates — 
that  crippled  brother,  Paul,  will  take  care  of  it. 
All  of  which  is  out  of  your  line,  Jerry,  but  interest 
ing  to  us  in  the  valley  here." 

As  York  paused  and  looked  at  Jerry,  all  that 
Stellar  Bahrr  had  said  of  him  and  the  Poser 
girl  swept  through  her  mind.  Not  the  least 
meanness  of  a  lie  is  in  its  infectious  poisoning 
power. 

"It   is   very   interesting.      I   wonder   how   she 

238 


THIS    SIDE    OF   THE    RUBICON 

can  take  care  of  that  baby.  Babies  are  so  impos 
sible,"  Jerry  said,  musingly. 

"We  were  all  impossibles  once.  Some  of  us  are 
still  improbables,"  York  replied. 

Jerry  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  "Not  alto 
gether  hopeless,  maybe.  Thelma  is  doing  this  for 
her  brother's  sake,  I  can  see  that.  And  the  story 
has  a  sweeter  side  than  if  she  were  doing  it  just 
for  herself.  It  makes  it  more  worth  while." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  York  had  caught  the 
note  of  anything  outside  of  self  in  Jerry's  views 
of  life. 

He  involuntarily  pressed  his  hand  against  the 
specially  delivered  letter  he  himself  had  received 
that  afternoon,  and  his  lips  were  set  grimly.  The 
plea  of  the  old  woman,  and  the  soul  of  the  young 
woman,  which  called  loudest  now? 

"Will  this  young  Ekblad  go  up  to  his  sweet 
heart's  grave  every  Sunday,  like  Mr.  Ponk  comes 
here?"  Jerry  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"No,  he  will  probably  never  go  near  it,"  York 
replied. 

"Why  not?  I  thought  that  was  the  customary 
way  of  doing  here,"  Jerry  declared. 

"Because  it  isn't  his  grave.  It  belongs  to  Bill 
Belkap,  who  doesn't  care  for  it.  Paul  Ekblad 
will  find  his  solace  in  caring  for  Nell  Poser's  child 
and  in  knowing  it  was  her  wish  that  he  is  fulfilling. 
That  is  the  real  solace  for  the  loss  of  loved  ones." 

Jerry  remembered  Uncle  Cornie  and  his  with- 

239 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

ered  yellow  hand  under  her  plump  white  one  as 
he  told  her  of  Jim  Swaim's  wish  for  his  child. 

"If  I  carry  out  that  wish  I  will  be  true  to  my 
father — and — he  will  be  happier,"  she  thought, 
and  a  great  load  seemed  lifting  itself  from  her  soul. 

"Oh,  father,  father!  You  are  not  in  the  'Eden' 
burial-plot.  You  are  here  with  me.  I  shall  never 
lose  you."  The  girl's  face  was  tenderly  sweet  with 
silent  emotion  as  she  turned  to  the  man  beside  her. 

"I'm  glad  you  told  me  that  story.  May  I  come 
down  to  your  office  in  the  morning  for  a  little 
conference?  I  can  come  at  ten." 

"Certainly.  Come  any  time,"  York  assured 
her,  wishing  the  while  that  the  plea  of  Jerusha 
Darby's  that  lay  in  his  pocket  v/as  in  the  bottom 
of  Fishing  Teddy's  deep  hole  down  the  Sage  Brush. 

The  next  morning  Jerry  Swaim  came  into  the 
office  of  the  Macpherson  Mortgage  Company 
promptly  at  the  stroke  of  ten  by  the  town  clock. 

"If  I  were  only  a  younger  man,"  York  Macpher 
son  thought,  feeling  how  the  presence  of  this  girl 
transformed  the  room  she  entered — "if  I  were 
only  younger  I  would  fall  at  her  shrine,  without  a 
question.  Now  I  keep  asking  myself  how  a  woman 
can  be  so  charming,  on  the  one  hand,  and  so  char 
acterless  maybe,  shallow  anyhow,  on  the  other. 
But  the  test  is  on  for  sure  now." 

No  hint  of  this  thought,  however,  was  in  his 
face  as  he  laid  aside  his  pen  and  asked,  in  his 
kindly,  stereotyped  way: 

240 


THIS    SIDE    OF    THE    RUBICON 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"You  can  be  my  father-confessor  for  a  minute 
or  two,  and  then  make  out  my  last  will  and  testa 
ment  for  me,"  Jerry  replied,  with  a  demure  smile. 

"So  serious  as  all  that?"  York  inquired,  gravely, 
picking  up  a  blank  lease  form  as  if  to  write. 

"So,  and  worse,"  Jerry  assured  him.  But  in  an 
instant  her  face  was  grave.  "You  know  my  pres 
ent  situation,"  she  began,  "and  that  I  must  decide 
at  once  what  to  do,  and  then  do  it.  I'm  so  grateful 
that  you  understand  and  do  not  try  to  offer  me 
friendship  for  service." 

York  looked  at  her  earnest  face  and  glowing 
dark-blue  eyes  wonderingly.  This  girl  was  forever 
surprising  him,  either  by  flippant  indifference  or 
by  unexpected  insight. 

"You  know  a  lot  about  my  affairs,  of  course," 
Jerry  went  on,  hurriedly.  "Aunt  Darby  offered 
both  of  us — me,  I  mean,  a  home  with  her,  a  life 
of  independent  dependence  on  her — charity — for 
that,  at  bottom,  was  all  that  it  was.  And  when  I 
refused  her  offer  she  simply  cut  me  until  such  time 
as  I  shall  repent  and  go  back.  Then  the  same 
thing  would  be  waiting  for  me.  I  know  now  that 
it  was  really  wilfulness  and  love  of  adventure  thai 
most  influenced  me  to  break  away  from  Phila 
delphia  and — and  its  flesh-pots.  But,  York,  I 
don't  want  to  go  back — not  yet  awhile,  anyhow." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  called  him  by 
that  name,  and  it  sent  a  thrill  through  her  listener. 

241 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"Is  it  wilfulness  and  love  of  adventure  still,  or 
something  else,  that  holds  you  here  'yet  awhile'?" 
York  asked,  with  kindly  seriousness. 

"Oh,  wait  and  see!"  Jerry  returned. 

"She  is  not  going  to  be  led,  whichever  way 
she  goes.  I  told  Laura  so,"  was  York's  mental 
comment. 

"Does  this  finish  your  'confession'?"  he  asked. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you  the  other  side  of  the 
story."  Jerry's  voice  trembled  a  little.  "Cousin 
Gene  Wellington  was  in  the  same  boat  with  me, 
a  dependent  like  myself.  But  now  that  he  has 
given  up  to  Aunt  Jerry's  wishes,  I  suppose  he  will 
be  her  heir  some  day,  unless  I  go  back  and  get 
forgiven." 

"  This  artist's  father  was  in  business  with  your 
father  once,  wasn't  he?"  York  asked. 

"Yes,  and  there  was  something  I  never  could 
understand,  and  Aunt  Jerry  never  mentioned, 
about  that;  but  she  did  say  often  that  Cousin 
Gene  would  make  up  for  what  John  Wellington 
lacked,  if  things  went  her  way.  They  haven't 
all  gone  her  way — only  half  of  them,  so  far." 

"Do  you  fully  understand  what  you  are  giving 
up,  Jerry?"  York  asked,  earnestly.  "That  life 
might  be  a  much  pleasanter  story  back  East,  even 
if  it  were  a  bit  less  romantic  than  the  story  on 
the  Sage  Brush.  Might  not  your  good  judgment 
take  you  back,  in  spite  of  a  little  pride  and  the 
newness  of  a  different  life  here?" 

242 


THIS    SIDE    OF   THE    RUBICON 

As  York  spoke,  Jerry  Swaim  sat  looking  ear 
nestly  into  his  face,  but  when  he  had  finished  she 
said,  lightly: 

"I  thought  before  I  saw  you  that  you  were  an 
old  man.  You  seem  more  like  a  brother  now.  I 
never  had  a  brother,  nor  a  sister — nothing  but 
myself,  which  makes  too  big  a  houseful  anywhere." 
She  grew  serious  again  as  she  continued:  "I  do 
understand  what  I'm  giving  up.  It  was  tabulated 
in  a  letter  to  me  yesterday,  and  I  do  not  give  up 
lightly  nor  for  a  girl's  whim  now.  I  have  my  time 
extended.  There  seems  to  be  indefinite  patience 
at  the  other  end  of  the  line,  if  I'll  only  be  sure  to 
agree  at  last." 

"Pardon  me,  Jerry,  if  I  ask  you  if  it  is  a  ques 
tion  of  mere  funds."  York  spoke  carefully.  "I 
know  that  Mrs.  Darby  may  be  drawn  on  at  any 
time  for  that  purpose." 

"Did  she  tell  you  so?"  Jerry  asked,  bluntly. 

"She  did — when  you  first  came  here,"  York 
replied,  as  bluntly. 

Jerry  did  not  dream  of  the  struggle  that  was  on 
hi  the  mind  of  the  man  before  her,  but  her  own 
strife  had  made  her  more  thoughtful. 

For  a  little  while  neither  spoke.  Then  York 
Macpherson's  face  cleared,  as  one  who  has  reached 
the  top  of  a  difficult  height  and  sees  all  the  open 
country  on  the  other  side.  Jerusha  Darby's  plea 
had  won. 

"Jerry,  you  do  not  understand  what  is  before 

243 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

you.  Whoever  takes  up  the  business  of  self- 
support,  depending  solely  on  the  earnings  that 
must  be  won,  has  a  sure  battle  with  uncertainty, 
failure,  sacrifice,  and  slow-wearing  labor.  Of 
course  it  is  a  glorious  old  warfare — but  it  has  that 
other  side.  In  the  face  of  the  fact  that  I  am  your 
fortunate  host,  and  that  my  sister  is  happier  now 
than  she  has  ever  been  before  in  New  Eden,  and 
hopes  to  keep  you  here,  I  urge  you,  Jerry,  to  con 
sider  well  before  you  refuse  to  go  back  to  your 
father's  sister  and  your  artist  cousin." 

The  "father's. sister"  was  a  master-stroke.  It 
caught  Jerry  at  an  angle  she  had  not  expected. 
But  that  "artist  cousin"!  If  Gene  had  been  truly 
the  artist,  Jerry  Swaim  had  yielded  then.  The 
failure  to  be  true  to  oneself  has  long  tentacles  that 
reach  far  and  grip  back  many  things  that  else  had 
come  in  blessing  to  him  who  lies  to  his  own  soul. 

"I  won't  go  back.  That  is  settled.  Now  as  to 
my  last  will  and  testament,  please,"  Jerry  said, 
prettily. 

"Imprimis,"  York  began,  with  his  pen  on  the 
lease  form  before  him. 

"Oh,  drop  the  Latin,"  Jerry  urged.  "Say,  'I, 
Geraldine  Darby  Swaim,  being  of  sound  mind 
and  in  full  possession  of  all  my  faculties,  and  of 
nothing  else  worth  mentioning,  being  about  to 
pass  into  the  final  estate  and  existence  of  an  old- 
maid  school-teacher,  a  high-school  teacher  of 
mathematics' —  Please  set  that  down." 

£44 


THIS    SIDE   OF   THE    RUBICON 

"So  you  are  going  to  teach.  I  congratulate 
you."  York  rose  and  took  the  girl's  hand. 

"Thank  you.  Yes,  I  just  'soared'  over  to  the 
hotel  and  signed  my  contract  with  Mr.  Ponk  and 
the  other  two  members  in  good  standing,  or  what 
ever  they  are."  Jerry  would  not  be  serious  now. 
"And  the  remainder  of  my  will:  *I  hereby  give 
and  bequeath  all  my  worldly  goods,  excepting  my 
gear,  to  wit:  one  claim  of  twelve  hundred  acres, 
containing  three  cottonwood-trees,  three  times 
three  acres  of  oak  timber,  and  three  times  three 
times  three  million  billion  grains  of  golden  sand, 
to  the  Macpherson  Mortgage  Company  to  have 
and  to  hold,  free  of  all  expense  to  me,  and  to  lease 
or  give  away  to  any  lunatic,  or  lunatics,  at  the 
company's  good-will  and  pleasure,  for  a  term  not 
to  exceed  three  million  years.  All  of  which  duly 
signed  and  sworn  to." 

As  Jerry  ran  on,  York  wrote  busily  on  the  lease 
form  before  him. 

"Please  sign  here,"  he  said,  gravely  pointing  to 
a  blank  space  when  he  had  finished.  "It  is  a 
three  years'  lease  to  your  property  herein  legally 
described.  The  Macpherson  Mortgage  Company 
will  pay  you  twenty-five  cents  per  acre,  per  year, 
with  the  exclusive  right  to  all  the  profits  accruing 
on  the  land,  and  to  sublease  the  same  at  will/ 

"That  is  about  half  of  what  Aunt  Jerry  spent 
on  my  wardrobe  just  before  I  came  West,"  Jerry 
exclaimed.  "But  I  couldn't  take  twenty-five  cents 

245 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

a  year.  I've  seen  the  property,  you  know,  and  I 
don't  want  charity  here  any  more  than  I  did  in 
Philadelphia." 

*'Then  sign  up  the  lease.  This  is  business.  Our 
company  is  organized  on  a  strictly  financial  basis 
for  strictly  financial  transactions.  It  is  a  matter  of 
Value  received'  both  ways  with  us." 

York  Macpherson  never  trifled  in  business  mat 
ters,  even  in  the  smallest  details,  and  there  was 
always  something  commanding  about  him.  It 
pleased  him  now  to  note  that  Jerry  read  every 
word  of  the  document  before  accepting  it,  and  he 
wondered  how  much  a  girl  of  such  inherent  busi 
ness  qualities  in  the  small  details  of  affairs  would 
waver  in  steadfastness  of  purpose  in  the  larger 
interests  of  life. 

"Will  you  let  me  give  a  receipt  for  the  casii 
instead  of  taking  a  check?"  Jerry  asked,  as  Yorl; 
reached  for  his  check-book. 

"Why  do  you  prefer  that?"  York  asked,  with 
business  frankness. 

"Because  I  do  not  care  to  have  the  transaction 
known  to  any  one  besides  your  company,"  Jerry 
replied. 

"But  suppose  I  should  sublease  this  land?" 
York  suggested. 

"That  would  be  different,  of  course,  even  if  the 
lessee  was  a  lunatic.  Otherwise  I  don't  care  to 
have  it  known  to  any  one  that  I  draw  an  income 
from  what  is  not  worth  an  effort,"  Jerry  declared, 

216 


THIS    SIDE    OF    THE    RUBICON 

quoting  Joe  Thomson's  words  regarding  her  pos 
sessions. 

"If  I  give  my  word  to  exclude  every  one  else 
from  knowing  of  this  transaction  it  means  every 
one — even  my  sister  Laura."  York  looked  at  Jerry 
questioningly. 

"Even  your  sister  Laura,"  Jerry  repeated,  con 
clusively. 

York  was  too  well-bred  to  ask  her  why,  and, 
while  he  voluntarily  refrained  from  telling  his  sister 
many  things,  she  was  his  counselor  in  so  many 
affairs  that  he  wondered  not  a  little  at  Jerry's 
request,  while  he  chafed  a  little  under  his  promise. 
He  was  so  accustomed  to  being  master  of  himself 
in  all  affairs  that  it  surprised  him  to  find  how  eas 
ily  he  had  put  himself  where  he  would  rather  not 
have  been  placed. 

Half  an  hour  later  Joe  Thomson  came  into  the 
office. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you  to-day,  Joe?"  York 
inquired. 

"Do  you  control  the  sections  south  of  mine?" 
Joe  asked.  "I  want  to  lease  them,  but  I  shouldn't 
care  to  have  the  owner  know  anything  about  it." 

"That  old  blowout!   What's  your  idea,  Joe?" 

"I  want  to  try  an  experiment,"  Joe  replied. 

York  Macpherson  had  the  faculty  of  reading 
some  men  like  open  books. 

"You  must  have  been  hanging  around  eaves 
dropping  this  morning.  I  just  got  a  three  years' 

247 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

lease  on  Miss  Swaim's  land  at  twenty-five  cents 
an  acre,  and  here  you  come  for  it.  I  took  it  on  a 
venture,  of  course,  hoping  to  sell  sand  to  the  new 
cement-works  up  the  river,  sand  being  scarce  in 
these  parts."  There  was  a  twinkle  in  York's  eyes 
as  he  said  this.  "I  can  sublease  it,  of  course,  and 
at  the  same  price,  but  you  know,  Joe,  that  the 
land  is  worthless." 

"I  don't  know  it,"  Joe  said,  stubbornly.  "You 
seem  to  have  been  willing  enough  to  get  the  lease 
secured  this  morning." 

York  ignored  the  thrust.  "You  know  I  leased 
that  land  merely  to  help  Miss  Swaim,  but  you 
don't  know  yet  whether  or  not  you  can  tame 
your  own  share  of  that  infernal  old  sand-pile  that 
you  want  to  put  a  mortgage  on  your  claim  to 
fight,"  York  reminded  him. 

"I'll  take  a  part  of  that  loan  to  pay  for  the 
lease,  and  the  rest  I'll  use  on  the  Swaim  land,  not 
on  mine.  I'm  going  to  go  beyond  the  blowout  to 
begin,  and  work  north  the  same  way  it  goes," 
Joe  explain  ad. 

"All  of  which  sounds  pretty  crazy  to  me.  You 
are  shouldering  a  big  load,  young  man — a  regular 
wildcat  venture.  There's  one  of  you  to  myriads 
of  sand-heaps.  You'll  have  to  take  the  Lord  Al 
mighty  into  partnership  to  work  a  miracle  before 
you  win  out.  I've  known  the  Sage  Brush  since  the 
first  settler  stuck  in  a  plow,  and  I've  never  known 
one  single  miracle  yet,"  York  admonished  him. 

£48 


THIS    SIDE    OF   THE    RUBICON 

"As  to  miracles,"  Joe  replied,  "they  are  an 
every-day  occurrence  on  the  Sage  Brush,  if  you 
can  only  look  far  enough  above  money-loaning  to 
see  them,  you  Shylock." 

Calling  York  Macpherson  a  Shylock  was  stand 
ard  humor  on  the  Sage  Brush,  he  was  so  notori 
ously  everybody's  friend  and  helper. 

"And  I've  had  to  take  the  Lord  in  for  a  partner 
all  my  life,"  Joe  added,  seriously. 

York  looked  at  the  stern  face  and  stalwart  form 
of  the  big,  sturdy  fellow  before  him,  recalling,  as 
he  did  so,  the  young  ranchman's  years  of  struggle 
through  his  boyhood  and  young  manhood. 

"Of  course  you  can  win,"  he  assured  Joe. 
"Your  kind  doesn't  know  what  failure  means.  It 
isn't  the  work,  it  is  the  stake  that  makes  me 
uneasy." 

Joe  looked  up  quickly  and  York  knew  that  he 
understood. 

"I  read  your  page  clearly  enough,  my  boy,"  he 
said,  earnestly.  "You  are  taking  a  hand  in  a  big 
game,  and  the  other  fellow  keeps  his  cards  under 
the  table.  Blowouts  are  not  as  uncertain  as  wom 
en,  Joe.  Let  me  tell  you  something.  You  will 
find  it  out,  anyhow.  I  can  ease  the  thing  up  now. 
Back  in  Philadelphia  a  rich  old  widow  has  given 
two  young  lovers  the  opportunity  to  earn  their 
living  or  depend  on  her  bounty — a  generous  one, 
too.  Being  childless  and  selfish,  she  secretly 
wanted  to  hold  them  dependent  on  her,  that  she 

17  249 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

may  demand  their  love  and  esteem.  It  is  an  old 
mistake  that  childless  wealth  and  selfishness  often 
make.  The  girl,  being  temperamentally  romantic 
and  inherently  stubborn,  voted  to  go  alone.  These 
things,  rather  than  any  particularly  noble  motive 
— I  hate  to  disillusion  you,  Joe,  but  I  must  hold 
to  facts — have  landed  her  practically  penniless  in 
our  midst;  and  she  is  not  acquainted  yet  with 
either  lack  of  means  or  the  labor  of  earning.  The 
young  man,  gifted  in  himself,  which  his  sweet 
heart  is  not,  son  of  a  visionary  spendthrift,  has 
chosen  the  easier  way,  a  small  clerkship  and  a 
luxurious  home  seeming  softer  to  his  artistic  nat 
ure  than  the  struggling  up-climb  with  his  real 
gift.  This  old  lady  won't  last  forever.  Her  disin 
herited  niece  won't  want  to  work  at  teaching  for 
ever.  The  waiting  clerk  will  come  after  the  heir 
apparent  just  when  she  is  most  tired  of  the  Sage 
Brush  and  the  things  thereof,  and — they  will 
live  tamely  ever  after  on  the  aunt's  money.  Do 
you  see  what  you  are  up  against,  Joe?  Don't 
waste  energy  on  a  dream — with  nothing  to  show 
for  your  labor  at  last  but  debt  and  possible  failure, 
and  the  beautiful  Sage  Brush  Valley  turned  to  a 
Sodom  before  your  eyes." 

"Whenever  you  are  ready  I'll  sign  up  the 
lease,"  was  Joe's  only  reply. 

So  the  transaction  was  completed  in  silence. 


Ill 

JERRY   AND    EUGENE— AND    JOE 


XIII 

HOW    A    GOOD    MOTHER    LIVES    ON 

NEW  EDEN  never  saw  a  more  beautiful 
autumn,  even  in  this  land  of  exquisite  au 
tumn  days,  than  the  first  one  that  Jerry  Swaim 
passed  in  the  Middle  West.  And  Jerry  reveled  in 
it.  For,  while  she  missed  the  splendid  colorings 
of  the  Eastern  woodlands,  she  never  ceased  to 
marvel  at  the  clear,  bright  days,  the  sweet,  brac 
ing  air,  the  wondrous  sweeps  of  landscapes  over 
hung  by  crystal  skies,  the  mist-wreathed  horizons 
holding  all  the  softer  hues,  from  jasper  red  to 
purest  amethyst,  that  range  the  foundation  stones 
of  heaven's  walls  as  Saint  John  saw  them  in  his 
dream  exquisite. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Jerry  that  a  beauty  im 
possible  to  awooded  broken  countrymight  be  found 
on  the  October  prairies.  Her  dream  of  a  Kansas 
"Eden"  exactly  like  the  Pennsylvania  "Eden," 
six  times  enlarged,  had  been  shattered  with  one 
glimpse  of  her  possession — a  possession  henceforth 
to  be  a  thing  forgotten.  But  life  had  opened  new 

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THE    RECLAIMERS 

pages  for  her  and  she  was  learning  to  read  them 
rapidly  and  well. 

One  thought  of  the  past  remained,  however. 
The  memory  of  a  romance  begun  in  her  Eastern 
home  would  not  die  with  the  telling.  And  while 
Jerry  Swaim  persuaded  herself  that  what  Eugene 
Wellington  called  success  to  her  was  failure,  and 
while  every  day  widened  the  breach  between  the 
two,  time  and  distance  softened  her  harsher  judg 
ment,  and  she  remembered  her  would-be  lover  with 
a  tender  sadness  that  made  her  heart  cold  to  the 
thought  of  any  other  love. 

This  did  not  make  her  the  less  charming,  how 
ever — this  pretty  girl  without  any  trace  of  co 
quetry,  who  knew  how  to  win  hearts  to  her.  Sure 
of  the  wideness  that  separated  her  life  from  the 
life  of  the  Sage  Brush  Valley,  she  took  full  measure 
of  interest  in  living,  unconsciously  postponing  for 
herself  the  future's  need  for  the  solace  of  love.  The 
small  income  from  her  lease  to  the  Macpherson 
Mortgage  Company  filled  her  purse  temporarily, 
and  she  began  at  once  upon  a  course  of  economic 
estimates  worthy  of  Jim  Swaim's  child,  however 
seemingly  impossible  in  Lesa  Swaim's  pretty,  due- 
less  daughter.  Another  trait,  undeveloped  here 
tofore,  began  to  be  emphasized — namely,  that 
while  she  could  chatter  glibly  on  embroideries  and 
styles,  and  prettily  on  art,  and  seriously  and  in 
telligently  on  affairs  of  national  interest,  as  any 
all-round  American  girl  should  do — she  was  dis- 

254 


creet  and  uncommunicative  regarding  her  business 
affairs.  Not  that  she  meant  to  be  secretive;  she 
was  simply  following  the  inherited  business  ability 
of  an  upright,  well-balanced  man,  her  father. 
Coupled  with  this  was  a  pride  in  her  determina 
tion  to  win — to  prove  to  Aunt  Jerry  Darby  and 
Eugene  Wellington  that  she  had  made  no  mistake; 
and  until  victory  was  hers  she  would  be  silent 
about  her  endeavors. 

The  Macphersons  had  insisted  that  Jerry  should 
remain  their  guest  at  least  until  the  opening  of  the 
school  in  September.  And  if  the  girl  imagined 
that  she  found  a  faint  hint  of  fervor  gone  from 
Laura  Macpherson's  urging,  her  hostess  made  up 
for  it  in  the  abundant  kindness  of  little  acts  of 
hospitality.  Jerry  was  frankly  troubled,  and  yet 
she  could  not  say  why,  for  it  was  all  the  impres 
sions  of  a  mind  sensitized  to  comprehend  unspoken 
things.  Jerry's  memory  would  call  up  that  incident 
of  the  lost  purse  found  in  her  hand-bag,  and  of 
Laura's  excuse  for  it,  which  she,  Jerry,  knew  was 
impossible.  And  yet  the  girl  felt  that  it  was  a  con 
temptible  thing  to  impute  a  distrust  to  Laura  that, 
placed  in  the  same  position,  she  herself  would  scorn 
to  harbor. 

"I  see  no  way  but  the  everlasting  run  of  events. 
I  wish  they  would  run  fast  and  clear  it  up,"  Jerry 
said  to  herself,  dismissing  the  matter  entirely,  only 
to  have  it  bobbing  up  for  consideration  again  on 
the  first  occasion. 

255 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

At  the  close  of  a  hot  summer  day  Jerry  was  in 
her  room,  finishing  a  letter  to  Jerusha  Darby,  to 
whom  she  wrote  faithfully,  but  from  whom  she 
had  rarely  received  a  line.  York  and  Laura  were 
on  the  porch,  as  usual.  The  hammock  that  day 
had  been  swung  to  a  shadier  position,  on  account 
of  the  slipping  southward  of  the  late  summer  sun; 
and  Laura  forgot  that  Jerry's  window  opened 
almost  against  it  now,  so  that  she  could  hear  all 
that  was  said  at  that  corner  of  the  porch.  As  Jerry 
finished  her  letter  she  caught  a  sentence  outside 
that  interested  her.  She  was  innocent  of  any  inten 
tion  of  eavesdropping  afterward,  but  what  she 
heard  held  her  motionless. 

"The  leak  has  opened  again,  York,"  Laura  was 
saying.  "Things  are  beginning  to  disappear,  espe 
cially  money." 

York's  face  took  on  a  sort  of  bulldog  grimness, 
but  he  made  no  reply. 

Inside,  Jerry  glanced  at  her  beaded  hand-bag 
lying  on  the  top  of  the  little  desk,  saying  to  herself: 

"I'll  open  a  bank-account  to-morrow.  I've  been 
foolish  to  leave  that  roll  of  bills  lying  around; 
all  I  have,  too,  between  me  and  the  last  resort  in 
Kansas — 'to  go  mad  or  go  back  East.'  I'm  cer 
tainly  a  brilliant  business  woman — I  am.'* 

And  then,  unconscious  at  first  that  she  was  lis 
tening,  her  ear  caught  what  followed  outside: 

"York,  the  queer  thing  is  that  it's  just  at 
'Castle  Cluny'  that  things  are  disappearing  right 

256 


HOW  A  GOOD  MOTHER  LIVES   ON 

now.  Mrs.  Bahrr  was  over  to-day  and  told  me 
the  Lenwells  had  even  gone  to  Kansas  City  and 
forgot  to  lock  their  back  door,  and  not  a  thing 
was  missing,  although  Clare  Lenwell  left  five  silver 
dollars  stacked  up  on  the  dresser  in  plain  view." 

"If  anybody  would  know  the  particulars  it 
would  be  the  Big  Dipper,"  York  declared. 

"Oh,  now  don't  begin  on  that  tune,  York,  for 
I'm  really  uneasy,"  Laura  began. 

"For  why?"  York  inquired. 

And  then  Laura  told  him  the  story  of  her  lost 
purse,  omitting  Stellar  Bahrr's  part  in  the  day's 
events,  and  adding: 

"Of  course,  I  hate  myself  for  even  daring  to 
carry  a  hint  of  suspicion  for  a  minute,  but  Jerry 
knew  as  well  as  I  did  that  I  hadn't  put  my  purse 
in  her  hand-bag  by  mistake,  for  she  carried  it  with 
her  up-town  that  day.  But  I  could  forget  the 
whole  thing  if  it  had  ended  there.  I  know  that 
the  dear  girl  was  dreadfully  short  of  money  until 
just  recently.  Now  her  purse  is  full  of  bills.  I 
couldn't  help  seeing  that  when  she  displays  it  so 
indifferently.  She  says  she  will  have  no  funds 
from  Philadelphia.  Where  does  she  get  money 
when  I  can't  keep  a  bill  around  the  house?" 

"Then  I  would  quit  the  stocking-toe  banking 
system  that  mother  and  all  the  other  women  and 
most  of  the  men  back  in  Winnowoc  used  to  em 
ploy.  You  might  try  the  First  National  Bank  of 
New  Eden.  I'm  one  of  the  directors,  and  a  com- 

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THE    RECLAIMERS 

paratively  safe  man  for  all  that,"  York  advised, 
gravely. 

"The  loss  of  the  money  is  nothing  to  the  pos 
sible  loss  of  confidence,"  Laura  went  on,  ignoring 
her  brother's  thrust.  "Could  such  a  thing  be 
possible  that  this  dear  girl  is  discouraged  and 
tempted  to  hide  her  necessities?"  The  woman's 
voice  was  full  of  kindly  sorrow.  "York,  couldn't 
you  tell  her?" 

"I  see  myself  doing  that,"  York  fairly  exploded. 
"Laura,  there  may  be  a  big  leak  in  this  house 
where  valuables  seep  through.  I'm  not  saying 
otherwise.  But  as  for  Jerry  Swaim,  it's  simply 
preposterous — impossible.  Never  let  such  a  thing 
cross  your  mind,  let  alone  your  lips  again,  you  dear 
best  of  sisters.  You  know  you  don't  believe  a 
word  of  it." 

"I  know  I  don't,  too,  York;  of  course  I  don't; 
but  I  must  have  needed  you  to  assure  me  of  it. 
It  all  began  in  circumstance  and  an  ugly  suspicion 
that  a  story  of  Stellar  Bahrr's  suggested.  And 
when  I  missed  my  own  money  and  saw  that  great 
roll  of  bills —  Oh,  I  must  be  crazy  or  just  a  plain 
human  creature  full  of  evil — " 

"Or  both,"  York  added.  "We  are  all  more  or 
less  human  and  more  than  less  crazy,  especially  if 
we  will  listen  to  old  wives'  tales  against  the  ex 
pressed  command  of  our  wise  brothers.  As  for 
Jerry  having  money" — York  suddenly  recalled  his 
promise  to  Jerry  not  to  discuss  her  affairs — "it's 

258 


HOW  A   GOOD  MOTHER  LIVES  ON 

hardly  likely  she  would  display  carelessly  what 
was  acquired  by  extreme  care.  Let's  call  her  out 
here  and  think  of  better  things." 

As  Laura  looked  up  she  realized  for  the  first 
time  the  nearness  of  the  hammock  to  Jerry's  open 
window.  The  grief  of  being  overheard  by  one 
whom  she  would  not  wound  for  worlds,  with  the 
self-rebuke  for  giving  ear  to  Stellar  Bahrr's  gossip, 
almost  overcame  her. 

"You  go  after  Jerry,  please,"  she  said,  faintly. 
York  went  into  the  hall,  calling  at  Jerry's  open 
door,  but  she  was  not  there.  He  looked  in  the 
living-room,  but  it  was  empty.  Through  the  din 
ing-room  he  passed  to  the  side  porch,  where  a 
dejected,  lonely  little  figure  was  half  hidden  by 
the  vines  that  covered  it.  At  sight  of  her  York 
stopped  to  get  a  grip  on  himself. 

At  her  host's  explosive  declaration,  "I  see  my 
self  doing  it,"  Jerry  had  come  to  herself.  Surprised 
and  wounded,  but  realizing  the  justice  of  the 
ground  for  suspicion  against  her — her — Jerry 
Swaim,  who  had  always  had  first  concern  in  those 
about  her — she  left  her  room  hastily  and  passed 
out  of  the  house  by  the  side  door.  In  the  little 
vine-covered  entry  she  sat  down  and  stared  out 
at  the  lawn,  where  the  fireflies  were  beginning  to 
twinkle  against  the  shrubbery  bordering  the  drive 
way.  She  had  thought  the  disposition  of  her 
estate,  and  the  choice  of  occupation,  and  the  put 
ting  away  of  Eugene  Wellington,  had  settled 

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THE    RECLAIMERS 

things  for  her  future.  Here  was  the  fulfilling  of  a 
sense  of  something  wrong  that  had  recently  pos 
sessed  her,  hardly  letting  itself  be  more  than  a 
sense  till  now.  What  did  life  mean,  anyhow?  "To 
go  mad  or  go  back  East?"  Why  should  she  do 
either  one,  who  had  not  offended  anybody? 

As  Jerry  gazed  out  at  the  shadowy  side  lawn 
the  sound  of  a  step  caught  her  ear — a  shuffling  of 
feet  across  the  grass,  and  the  noise  of  a  hard  sole 
on  the  cement  driveway.  Jerry's  eyes  mechani 
cally  followed  a  short,  shambling  figure,  suggesting 
a  bear  almost  as  much  as  a  human  being,  as  it 
passed  forward  a  step  or  two;  then,  dividing  the 
spiraea-bushes  on  the  farther  edge,  it  disappeared 
into  the  deeper  shadow  of  the  slope  toward  the 
town  below  "Kingussie." 

It  was  Fishing  Teddy — old  Hans  Theodore; 
Jerry  recognized  him  at  a  glance,  and  in  the  midst 
of  her  confused  struggle  to  find  herself  she  paused 
to  wonder  about  him.  Intense  mental  states  often 
experience  such  pauses,  when  the  mind  grappling 
in  an  internal  combat  rests  for  a  moment  on  an 
impression  coming  through  the  senses. 

"What's  the  old  Teddy  Bear  doing  here?"  Jerry 
asked  herself,  and  then  she  remembered  his  coming 
once  before  almost  to  this  very  spot.  That  was 
the  night  Joe  Thomson  had  called — the  big  farmer 
whose  property  her  own  was  helping  to  destroy. 
There  was  something  strong  and  unbreakable 
about  this  Joe.  A  million  leagues  from  her  his 

260 


HOW  A  GOOD  MOTHER  LIVES   ON 

lot  was  cast,  of  course,  and  yet  she  hoped  somehow 
that  Joe  might  be  near  and  that  the  Teddy  Bear 
was  waiting  for  him. 

"Jerry!  Jerry!"  York  called  through  the  hall, 
and  then  he  came  out  to  where  she  sat  on  the 
side  porch. 

"I  was  hunting  for  you.  You  have  a  caller,  my 
lady,  a  gentleman  who  wants  to  take  you  for  a  ride 
up  the  river.  It  will  be  gloriously  cool  on  the  ridges 
up-stream.  He  will  give  you  a  splendid  hour  before 
the  curfew  rings — the  lucky  dog!" 

Jerry  looked  up  expectantly.  "It  must  be  Joe 
Thomson,"  she  thought,  and  she  was  glad  to  have 
him  come  again. 

On  the  front  porch  little  Junius  Brutus  Ponk 
was  strutting  back  and  forth,  chatting  with  Laura. 

"Good  evening,  Miss  Swaim.  I  just  soared 
down  to  invite  you  to  take  a  little  drive  in  my 
gadabout.  I  hope  it  will  suit  you  to  go." 

"Nothing  would  please  me  more,"  Jerry  said, 
lightly.  "Let  me  get  my  wrap."  As  she  returned 
to  her  room  her  eye  fell  on  her  hand-bag,  lying 
on  her  desk.  A  sense  of  grief  swept  over  her,  for 
one  moment,  followed  by  a  strange  lightness  of 
heart  as  if  her  latest  problem  had  solved  itself 
suddenly. 

As  they  passed  down  the  walk  to  the  little  gray 
car  York  Macpherson  looked  after  them,  con 
scious  of  the  impossible  thing  in  Ponk's  mind,  and 
wondering  wherein  lay  the  charm  of  this  pink- 

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THE    RECLAIMERS 

and-white  inefficient  girl  to  grip  with  so  strong  a 
hold  on  the  heart  of  a  sensible  man  like  Ponk. 

"It  is  her  power  to  be  what  she  has  never  been, 
but  what  she  will  become,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"She's  the  biggest  contradiction  to  all  rules  that 
I  ever  knew,  but  she's  a  dead-sure  proposi 
tion." 

The  coming  of  callers  found  York  in  his  best 
mood,  and  when  his  sister  bade  him  good  night 
he  put  his  arms  around  her,  saying,  gently: 

"You  are  the  best  woman  in  the  world,  Laura, 
and  you  mustn't  carry  a  single  hidden  worry." 

"Neither  must  you,  York,"  Laura  replied,  and 
each  knew  that  the  other  understood. 

Meantime,  out  on  the  upper  Sage  Brush  road 
Jerry  was  letting  the  beauty  of  the  evening  lift 
the  weight  from  her  mind.  She  was  just  beginning 
to  understand  that,  while  she  had  imagined  her 
self  to  be  doing  her  own  thinking  heretofore,  she 
had  been  merely  willing  that  her  thinking  should 
be  done  for  her.  She  was  now  at  the  place  where 
her  will  meant  little  and  her  judgment  everything 
in  shaping  her  acts.  The  recognition  brought  a 
sense  of  freedom  she  had  never  known  before. 
What  she  had  overheard  from  the  porch  seemed 
far  away,  and  her  wounded  spirit  grew  whole 
again  as  she  began  to  find  herself  standing  on  her 
own  feet,  not  commanding  that  somebody  else 
should  hold  her  up.  Jerry's  mind  worked  rapidly, 
and  before  the  gray  car  had  been  turned  at  the 

£62 


HOW  A  GOOD  MOTHER  LIVES  ON 

northern  end  of  the  evening's  ride  it  was  not  the 
Jerry  Swaim  of  an  hour  ago,  but  a  young  war 
rior,  clad  in  armor,  with  shining  weapons  in  her 
hand,  who  sat  beside  the  adoring  little  hotel-keeper 
of  the  faulty  grammar  and  the  kindly  heart. 

Ponk  halted  the  car  at  the  far  end  of  the  drive 
up-stream,  to  take  in  a  moonlight  view  of  the 
Sage  Brush  Valley. 

"Them  three  lights  down  yonder's  the  court 
house  an'  the  school-house  an'  the  station.  The 
other  town  glims  are  all  hid  by  trees  an'  bushes 
and  sundry  in  the  wrinkles  of  the  praira."  Ponk 
always  said  "praira."  "But  it's  a  beautiful 
country  when  you  douse  the  sunshine  and  turn 
on  the  starlight,  or  a  half-size  moon  like  that 
young  pullet  in  the  west  sky  yonder.  Ever  see 
the  blowout  by  moonlight?  Sorta  reclaims  its 
cussed  ugliness,  you  might  say,  an'  the  dimmer 
glow  softens  down  an'  subdues  the  infernal  old 
beast  considerable." 

Jerry  turned  quickly  toward  her  companion. 
"  Blowout  is  a  word  taboo  in  my  presence,"  she 
said,  gravely.  "Anybody  who  wants  to  be  listed 
as  a  friend  of  mine  will  never  mention  it  to  me, 
for  to  me  there  is  no  such  thing.  I  have  no  real 
estate  in  Kansas,  nor  anywhere  else,  for  that 
matter.  I'm  just  a  poor  orphan  child."  The 
girl  smiled  brightly.  "All  the  world  is  mine, 
even  though  none  of  it  really  belongs  to  me.  If 
you  want  my  good-will,  even  my  speaking  ac- 

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THE    RECLAIMERS 

quaintance,  you'll  remember  the  road  to  it  is 
never  to  mention  that  horrid  thing  to  me  again." 

"I  never  won't,"  Ponk  declared,  seriously. 
"If  that's  the  only  restriction,  I'm  in  the  middle 
of  your  good-will  so  far  I'll  never  find  the  outside 
gate  again." 

"I  hope  you  won't,"  Jerry  said,  lightly. 

"I'm  seriouser  than  you  are,  Miss  Swaim,  and 
I  asked  you  to  take  this  ride  for  three  reasons," 
Ponk  returned. 

"Name  them,"  Jerry  demanded,  in  the  dim 
light  noting  the  flush  on  his  round  cheeks. 

"Firstly,  and  mainly,  just  selfish  pleasure. 
Secondly,  because  I  wanted  to  do  you  a  favor  if 
I  might  presume,  and  thirdly,  to  tell  you  why 
I  wanted  to  do  it." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  Jerry  said,  sincerely. 

"What  I  want  to  say  in  that  favor  business  is 
the  same  I  told  York  to  say  that  Sunday  we  met 
you  in  the  cemetery,  where  I'd  been  callin'  on 
mother,  and  you  come  to  get  away  from  New  Eden 
and  all  that  in  it  is,  for  a  little  while.  You  re 
member  York  came  trailing  after  you  with  some 
excuse  or  other,  an'  right  behind  him  comes  an 
other  trailer,  a  womankind?" 

"I  remember  York,  that's  all,"  Jerry  replied, 
trying  to  recall  the  woman,  whom  she  had  for 
gotten. 

"Well,  she  didn't  forget  you.  It's  that  Stellar 
Bahrr,  and  she  made  capital,  principal,  and  com- 

264 


HOW  A  GOOD  MOTHER  LIVES  ON 

pound  interest  out  of  the  innocent  event,  as  she 
does  out  of  every  move  everybody  in  that  burg 
makes.  But  don't  let  it  disturb  you  a  mite." 

"I  won't,"  Jerry  replied,  indifferently.  "But 
tell  me  why  she  should  make  capital  out  of  me?" 

"'Cause  she  hates  you,"  Ponk  said,  calmly. 

"Me?  Why?"  Jerry's  eyes  were  black  now, 
and  the  faintly  gleaming  ripples  above  her  white 
forehead  and  her  faintly  pink  cheeks  in  the  light 
of  the  moon  made  a  delicious  picture. 

"Just  because  you  are  you,  young,  admired. 
I  don't  dare  to  say  no  more,  no  matter  what  I 
feel.  It's  a  snaky  jealousy,  and  she'll  trail  you 
constant.  It's  got  to  be  the  habit  of  her  We,  and 
it's  ruined  her  as  it  will  any  person." 

"Well,  let  her  trail."  Jerry's  voice  had  a  clear 
defiance  now.  "I'm  here  to  earn  an  honest  living 
by  my  own  efforts.  I  shall  pay  my  bills  and 
take  care  of  my  own  business.  I  have  not  in 
tentionally  injured  anybody." 

She  paused  and  remembered  Laura  Macpherson, 
her  shapely  hands  gripped  together,  emphasizing 
her  unbreakable  determination. 

"And  you  are  goin'  to  win.  Don't  never  be 
afraid  of  the  end  and  finis.  But,  knowin'  Sage 
Brush,  an'  how  scared  it  is  of  Mrs.  Bahrr,  yet 
listenin'  constant  to  every  word  she  says,  I  felt 
it  my  duty  to  warn  you  of  breakers  ahead.  I've 
known  more  'n  one,  bein'  innocent,  to  fall  for  her 
tricks.  And  I'm  telling  you  out  of  pure  kind- 
is  265 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

ness.  There's  only  two  ways  to  handle  her — 
keep  still  and  try  to  live  above  her,  or  stand 
straight  up  an'  tell  her  to  go  to  the  devil.  Excuse 
me,  Miss  Swaim,  I'm  not  really  a  profane  man,  but 
I  mean  well  by  you,  and  I'm  not  just  settin'  here 
to  gossip  about  a  fellow-citizenness." 

"I  know  you  mean  well,  Mr.  Ponk.  You  have 
been  more  than  kind  to  me  ever  since  the  night 
I  reached  New  Eden,  and  I  do  appreciate  your 
friendship  and  good- will,"  Jerry  said,  earnestly. 
"Now  as  to  Mrs.  Bahrr,  which  course  do  you  ad 
vise  me  to  follow?" 

Junius  Brutus  Ponk  was  hanging  on  every 
word  of  Jerry's,  and  his  face  was  a  full  moon  of 
pleasure,  for  he  was  frankly  and  madly  in  love 
with  her,  and  he  knew  it. 

"I  can't  advise  at  all;  it  just  ain't  for  me  to 
do  that.  You  are  honorin'  us  by  stoppin*  in  our 
midst.  What  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  be  on  the 
lookout,  an'  if  things  start  wrong,  anywhere — 
school  or  church  or  with  your  friends,  the  Mac- 
phersons,  for  instance,  as  they  might — just  run 
down  old  Stellar  before  you  go  to  guessin',  or  mis- 
understandin',  and  if  you  can't  do  it  alone" — 
Ponk  smote  his  broad  bosom  dramatically — "I'm 
here  to  help.  That  leads  me  to  the  thirdly  of  my 
triplet  purpose  in  askin'  the  pleasure  of  your  com 
pany." 

Jerry  looked  up  with  a  smile.  The  little  man 
was  so  thoroughly  good,  and  yet  so  impossible. 

£66 


HOW  A  GOOD  MOTHER  LIVES  ON 

York  Macpherson  seemed  head  and  shoulders 
above  any  other  man  she  had  ever  known  in  her 
life — except  her  father.  In  fact,  he  seemed  like  a 
sort  of  father  to  her — and  Joe  Thomson.  That 
was  just  a  shadow  across  her  consciousness,  for 
all  these  men  belonged  here  and  at  heart  were  not 
of  her  world. 

"Miss  Swaim,  will  you  let  me,  without  no  recom 
pense,  be  a  friend  at  court  whenever  you  need  my 
help?  You  seem  to  me  like  a  sort  of  female  Rob 
inson  Crusoe  cast  away  on  the  desert  island  of  the 
Sage  Brush  country  in  Kansas.  Let  me  be  your 
Man  Friday.  I'd  like  to  be  your  Saturday  and 
Sunday  and  Monday  and  Tuesday  and  Wednes 
day.  York  Macpherson  would  come  lopin'  in  to 
claim  Thursday,  I  reckon." 

The  sincerity  of  the  fat  little  man  offset  the 
pompous  ridiculousness  of  his  speech. 

"If  I  seem  cuttin'  into  the  Macpherson  melon- 
patch  it's  because  I  got  on  to  some  of  Stellar 
Bahrr's  gossip  that  set  me  thinkin'.  She's  up  to 
turnin'  Miss  Laury  against  you  because  of  York's 
admiring  you  so  much." 

Jerry  grasped  the  situation  now.  The  hotel- 
keeper  was  not  only  wishing  to  befriend  and  shield 
her — he  thought  he  was  in  love  with  her.  And 
he  thought  that  York  Macpherson  was  also  in 
love.  Was  he?  The  girl's  mind  worked  rapidly. 
Little  as  she  cared  for  the  opinion  of  New- 
Edenites,  outside  of  these  three  good  friends,  she 

267 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

realized  that  these  same  New-Edenites  were  inter 
ested  in  her  and  dared  to  discuss  her  affairs;  and 
that  if  she  stayed  here,  as  she  meant  to  do,  she 
must  meet  them  and  be,  in  a  way,  of  them.  How 
much  of  this  newly  discovered  admiration  which 
her  companion  evidently  felt,  and  which  he  felt 
sure  York  Macpherson  possessed,  might  be  really 
the  outgrowth  of  pity  for  her  in  the  new  position 
in  which  she  found  herself?  And  there  was  Laura. 
Stellar  Bahrr  had  hinted  about  her  being  neglected 
by  her  brother  for  other  women.  Whatever 
might  be  the  real  motive,  Jerry  and  love  had 
parted  company  on  the  day  that  Eugene  Well 
ington's  letter  had  come  telling  of  his  renunciation 
of  his  art  for  an  easy  clerkship.  But  Laura  didn't 
know  that,  and  she  might  have  heard  the  town- 
meddler —  Oh,  bother  Stellar  and  all  her  works! 
Jerry  Swaim  would  have  none  of  them.  And  Laura 
was  such  a  sweet,  companionable,  refined  friend. 
This  thing  must  be  overcome  in  some  way. 

"Tell  me,  Mr.  Ponk,  why  do  the  New  Eden 
people  listen  to  a  sharp-tongued  trouble-maker, 
since  they  know  her  power?"  Jerry  asked,  after  a 
pause. 

"Why?  'Cause  they  enjoy  it  when  'tain't  about 
them — all  of  us  do  that,  bein'  human.  Are  you 
right  sure  you  wouldn't  believe  her  yourself, 
much  as  you  despised  any  story  of  hers  you'd  be 
forced  to  listen  to?  Well  as  I  know  her,  I  have  to 
keep  pinchin'  my  right  arm  to  see  if  it's  got  nerve 

268 


enough  to  strike  back  if  I'm  hit,  you  might 
say." 

On  Jerry's  cheeks  the  bloom  deepened.  She  had 
let  a  word  of  Mrs.  Bahrr's  set  her  to  wondering 
about  both  her  host  and  hostess. 

"They's  one  more  thing  I  want  to  say,  the 
third  reason  for  askin'  you  out  this  evening"  Ponk 
went  on,  and  the  pompous  manner  fell  from  him 
somewhat  in  his  earnestness.  "I  don't  want  you 
to  leave  Macpherson's  home  for  anything,  right 
now.  They  want  you  and — well,  I  hope  you  won't. 
Even  at  the  loss  of  a  boarder  for  myself  at  the 
hotel  and  gurrage  I  hope  you  won't.  But  if  some 
time — if  it  was  ever  possible  you'd  find  a  need  for 
me  more  'n  what  we  spoke  of —  I  ain't  no  show. 
I'm  clear  below  your  society  back  East,  but,  if 
you  ever  needed  a  real,  devoted,  honest  man  who 
tried  to  be  a  Christian — " 

Jerry  caught  his  full  meaning  now.  "You  are  a 
Christian,  Mr.  Ponk.  I'm  not.  You  are  kind  to 
me  in  my  need,  and  I  shall  rely  on  your  sincerity 
and  your  friendship,  and  if  there  is  any  way  in 
which  I  could  return  it,  even  in  a  small  measure, 
I  would  be  so  happy.  We  will  be  the  best  of 
friends." 

Jerry's  smile  was  winsome  as  she  frankly  put  out 
her  hand  to  seal  the  bond  in  a  clasp  of  good-fellow 
ship.  And  Junius  Brutus  Ponk  understood. 

"It's  no  use,"  he  said  to  himself,  sadly.  "I  wish 
it  might  have  been,  but  it  ain't.  I  ain't  such  a 

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THE    RECLAIMERS 

fool  I  can't  see  a  door  when  it's  shut  right  before 
me.  I'm  blessed  to  be  her  friend,  and  I'll  be  it 
if  the  heavens  drop.  I'm  in  my  Waterloo  an'  must 
just  wade  across  an'  shake  myself.  That's  all." 

His  sunny  nature  always  overcame  his  disap 
pointments,  but  from  that  hour  in  an  upper  niche 
of  his  heart's  shrine  he  placed  Jerry's  image,  one 
of  the  beautiful  things  of  life  he  might  do  homage 
to  but  could  never  possess. 

"They's  just  one  favor  I  want  to  ask  of  you,'* 
he  said,  aloud,  "an*  that  is  that  you'll  go  with 
me  to  call  on  mother  out  to  the  cemetery  some 
times.  I'd  like  her  to  know  you,  too.  She  was 
good,  and  a  good  mother  just  lives  on." 

Jerry's  cheek  paled  a  shade,  but  she  said,  gra 
ciously:  "I'll  be  glad  to  do  that,  Mr.  Ponk. 
Maybe  it  will  make  me  a  little  less  rebellious,  and 
you  will  be  doing  me  the  favor." 

Ponk's  face  beamed  with  pleasure  at  her  words 
the  while  a  real  tear  rolled  unnoticed  down  his 
cheek.  That  night  marked  the  beginning  of  a  new 
spiritual  life  for  Jerry  Swaim. 


XIV 

JIM  SWAIM'S  WISH 

next  morning,  when  Jerry  Swaim  was 
ready  to  go  to  the  bank,  her  pretty  beaded 
bag  seemed  light  as  she  lifted  it,  and  when  she 
opened  her  purse  she  found  it  empty.  Then  she 
sat  down  and  stared  at  herself  in  the  mirror  oppo 
site  her. 

"Well,  what  next?  Go  mad  or  go  back  East? 
This  must  be  the  last  ditch,"  she  murmured.  "Joe 
Thomson  said  he  didn't  go  mad,  but  he  did  get 
mad.  I'm  mad  clear  to  my  Swaim  toes,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  take  another  bump.  It's  been  nothing 
but  bumps  ever  since  I  reached  the  junction  of  the 
main  line  with  the  Sage  Brush  branch  back  in 
June,  and  I'm  tired  of  it.  Gene  Wellington  said 
the  West  got  the  better  of  his  father.  The  East 
seems  to  have  gotten  the  best  of  his  father's  son.*' 

Across  her  mind  swept  the  thought  of  how 
easy  Gene's  way  was  being  made  for  him  in  the 
East,  and  how  the  way  of  the  West  for  her  had  to 
be  fought  over  inch  by  inch. 

"Neither  East  nor  West  shall  get  me."     She 

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THE    RECLAIMERS 

tossed  her  head  imperiously,  for  Jim  Swaim's 
chin,  York  Macpherson  would  have  said,  was  in 
command,  and  the  dreamy  eyes  were  flashing  fire. 

An  hour  later  Ponk's  gray  runabout  was  spinning 
off  the  miles  of  the  trail  down  the  Sage  Brush, 
with  Jerry  Swaim's  hands  gripping  the  wheel 
firmly,  though  her  cheeks  were  pink  with  excite 
ment.  Where  a  road  from  the  west  crossed  the 
trail,  the  stream  cut  through  a  ledge  of  shale,  leav 
ing  a  little  bluffy  bank  on  either  side,  with  a 
bridge  standing  high  above  the  water. 

Joe  Thomson,  in  a  big  farm  wagon,  had  just 
met  his  neighbor,  Thelma  Ekblad,  in  her  plain 
car,  at  the  end  of  the  bridge,  when  Jerry's 
horn  called  her  approach.  Before  they  had  time 
to  shift  aside  the  gray  car  swept  by  with  graceful 
curve,  missing  the  edge  of  the  bridge  abutment  by 
an  eyelash. 

"Great  Scott!  Thelma,  I  didn't  notice  that  this 
big  gun  of  mine  was  filling  up  all  the  road,"  Joe 
exclaimed.  "That  was  the  neatest  curve  I  ever 
saw.  That's  Ponk's  car  from  New  Eden,  but  only 
a  civil  engineer's  eye  could  have  kept  out  of  the 
river  right  there." 

"The  pretty  girl  who  is  visiting  the  Macpher- 
sons  was  the  driver,"  Thelma  said. 

"No!  Was  it,  sure?"  Joe  queried,  looking  with 
keen  eyes  down  the  trail,  whither  the  gray  run 
about  was  gliding  like  a  bird  on  the  wing. 

"Why,  of  course  it  was!"  Thelma  assured  him, 

272 


JIM    SWAIM'S    WISH 

feeling  suddenly  how  shabby  her  own  machine 
became  in  comparison.  "I  must  go  now.  Come 
over  and  see  Paul  when  you  can." 

"I  will.    How  is  the  baby?"  Joe  asked. 

"Oh,  splendid,  and  so  much  company  for  Paul!" 
Thelma  declared. 

"Yes,  a  baby  is  the  preacher  and  the  whole  con 
gregation  sometimes.  Let  me  know  if  you  need 
any  help.  Good-by." 

So  in  neighborly  good-will  they  separated,  Joe 
to  follow  the  gray  car  down  the  trail,  and  Thelma 
to  wonder  briefly  at  the  easy  life  of  the  beautiful 
Eastern  girl  whose  lot  was  so  unlike  her  own. 
Only  briefly,  however,  for  Thelma  was  of  too 
happy  a  temperament,  of  too  calm  and  philosoph 
ical  a  mentality,  to  grieve  vainly.  It  always  put 
a  song  in  her  day,  too,  to  meet  Joe  upon  the  way. 
Not  only  on  common  farm  topics  were  she  and 
Joe  congenial  companions,  but  in  politics,  the  latest 
books,  the  issues  of  foreign  affairs,  the  new  in 
science,  they  found  a  common  ground. 

Joe's  thoughts  were  of  the  Eastern  girl,  too,  as 
he  thundered  down  the  trail  in  his  noisy  wagon. 

"I  wish  I  could  overtake  her  before  she  gets  to 
the  forks  of  the  road,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I 
know  she's  not  going  to  go  my  way  farther  than 
that.  But  why  is  she  here  at  all?  There's  nobody 
living  down  the  river  road  for  miles,  except  old 
Fishing  Teddy.  She  did  dine  at  his  expense  the 
day  she  came  out  to  her  sand-pile.  He  told  me 

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THE    RECLAIMERS 

all  about  it  the  night  when  we  rode  down  from 
town  together.  Funny  old  squeak  he  is.  But  he 
can't  interest  her.  Hello!  Yonder  we  are." 

In  three  minutes  he  was  beside  the  gray  car, 
that  was  standing  at  the  point  where  the  river  road 
branched  from  the  main  trail. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Thomson.  I  knew  you 
were  coming  this  way,  so  I  waited  for  you  here. 
I  don't  go  down  that  road.  You  know  why." 

Jerry  pointed  toward  the  way  down  which  her 
own  land  lay. 

Joe  lifted  his  hat  in  greeting,  his  cheeks  flushing 
through  the  tan,  for  his  heart  would  jump  furi 
ously  whenever  he  came  into  this  girl's  presence. 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Swaim.  I  am  glad  you 
waited,"  he  managed  to  say.  "You  certainly 
know  how  to  guide  a  car.  I  didn't  know  I  was 
filling  the  whole  highway  up  at  the  bridge." 

"Oh,  there  was  plenty  of  room,"  Jerry  said, 
indifferently. 

"Yes,  plenty  if  you  know  how  to  stick  to  it. 
That's  the  secret  of  a  lot  of  things,  I  guess — not 
finding  a  wider  trail,  but  knowing  how  to  drive 
straight  through  on  the  one  you  have  found." 

Joe  was  talking  to  gain  time  with  himself,  for 
he  was  inwardly  angry  at  being  upset  every  time 
he  met  this  pretty  girl. 

This  morning  she  seemed  prettier  than  ever  to 
his  eyes.  She  was  wearing  a  cool  gray -green  hat 
above  her  golden-gleaming  hair,  and  her  sheer 

274 


JIM   SWAIM'S    WISH 

gingham  gown  was  stylishly  summery.  Exquisite 
taste  in  dress,  as  well  as  love  of  romance,  was  a 
heritage  from  Lesa  Swaim. 

"You  are  a  real  philosopher  and  a  poet,"  Jerry 
exclaimed,  looking  up  with  wide-open  eyes. 

"A  sort  of  Homer  in  homespun,"  Joe  suggested. 

"Probably;  but  I  have  a  prose  purpose  in  de 
taining  you  and  I  am  in  great  luck  to  have  found 
you,"  Jerry  replied. 

"Thank  you.  The  luck  will  be  mine  if  I  can 
serve  you." 

The  bronze  young  farmer's  gallantry  was  as  gra 
cious  as  ever  the  well-groomed  Philadelphia  ar 
tist's  had  been. 

"Kansas  seems  determined  to  get  rid  of  me,  if 
hard  knocks  mean  anything.  I've  had  nothing 
but  bumps  and  knotty  problems  since  I  landed 
on  these  sand-shifting  prairies.  It  makes  me  mad 
and  I'm  not  going  to  be  run  off  by  it."  Jerry's 
eyes  were  darkly  defiant  and  her  lifted  hand  seemed 
strong  to  strike  for  herself. 

"You  have  the  real  pioneer  spirit,"  Joe  declared. 
"It  was  that  very  determination  not  to  be  gotten 
rid  of  by  a  sturdy  bunch  of  forefathers  and  moth 
ers  that  has  subdued  a  state,  sometimes  bois 
terous  and  belligerent,  and  sometimes  snarling 
and  catty,  and  made  it  willing  to  eat  out  of  their 
hands." 

"Oh,  it's  not  all  subdued  yet.  It  never  will 
be."  Jerry  pointed  down  the  trail  toward  the  far 

275 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

distance  where  her  twelve  hundred  blowout-cursed 
acres  lay. 

Joe  Thomson's  mouth  was  set  with  a  bulldog 
squareness.  "Are  we  less  able  than  our  fore 
fathers?"  he  asked. 

"As  to  sand — yes,"  Jerry  replied,  "but  to  my 
self,  as  a  first  consideration,  I'm  dreadfully  in 
trouble." 

"Again?" 

"Oh,  always — in  Kansas,"  Jerry  declared. 
"First  my  whole  inheritance  is  smothered  in  plain 
sand — and  dies — hard  but  quickly.  Then  I  fight 
out  a  battle  for  existence  and  win  a  schoolmarm's 
crown  of — " 

"Of  service,"  Joe  suggested,  seriously. 

"I  hope  so.  I  really  do,"  Jerry  assured  him. 
"Next  I  lease  my — dukedom  for  a  small  but  vital 
sum  of  money  on  which  to  exist  till — till — " 

"Yes,  till  wheat  harvest,  figuratively  speaking," 
Joe  declared. 

"And  this  morning  my  purse  is  empty,  robbed 
of  every  cent,  and  my  pearl-handled  knife  and  a 
button-hook." 

Joe  had  left  his  wagon  and  was  standing  be 
side  Jerry's  car,  with  one  foot  on  the  running- 
board. 

"Stolen!  Why,  why,  where's  York?"  he  asked, 
in  amazement. 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  he  took  it,"  Jerry 
replied. 

276 


JIM   SWAIM'S    WISH 

"Oh,  but  I  mean  what's  he  doing  about  it?" 
Joe  questioned,  anxiously. 

"Nothing.  He  doesn't  know  it.  I  came  to 
find  you  first,  to  get  you  to  help  me." 

"Me!"  Joe  could  think  of  nothing  more  to  say. 

"You  won't  scold,  and  I'm  afraid  York  would. 
I  don't  want  to  be  scolded,"  Jerry  declared.  "He 
would  wonder  why  I  hadn't  put  it  in  the  bank. 
And,  besides,  there  have  some  queer  things  been 
happening  in  New  Eden — I  can't  explain  them,  for 
you  might  not  understand,  but  I  do  really  need  a 
friend  right  now.  Did  you  ever  need  one?" 

To  the  girl  alone  and  under  suspicion,  however 
kind  the  friends  who  were  puzzled  over  her  situa 
tion,  conscious  that  too  many  favors  were  not  to 
be  asked  of  the  good-souled  Junius  Brutus  Ponk, 
the  young  farmer  seemed  the  only  one  to  whom 
she  could  turn.  And  she  had  the  more  readily 
halted  her  car  to  wait  for  him  because  she  had 
already  begun  to  weave  a  romance  in  homespun 
about  this  splendid  young  agriculturist  and  the 
good-hearted  country  girl,  Thelma  Ekblad.  He, 
himself,  was  impersonal  to  her. 

"I'm  always  needing  friends — and  I'm  more 
glad  than  you  could  know  to  have  you  even  think 
of  me  in  your  needs.  But  everybody  turns  to 
York  Macpherson.  He's  the  lodestar  for  every 
Sage  Brush  compass,"  Joe  said,  looking  earnestly 
at  Jerry. 

"I'm  on  my  way  to  the  old  Teddy  Bear's  house, 

277 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

your  Fishing  Teddy,"  Jerry  declared,  "and  I 
thought  you  would  go  with  me.  I  don't  want  to 
go  alone.'* 

"Let  me  take  this  machinery  to  the  men — they 
are  waiting  for  it  to  start  to  work — and  I'll  be  glad 
to  go,"  Joe  answered  her. 

The  gray  car  followed  the  big  wagon  down 
the  trail  to  the  deep  bend  of  the  Sage  Brush  in 
the  angle  of  which  Joe's  ranch-house  stood;  and 
the  load  of  machinery  was  quickly  given  over  to 
the  workmen.  As  Joe  seated  himself  in  the  little 
gray  car  Jerry  said: 

"You  are  wondering  why,  and  too  polite  to  ask 
why,  I  go  to  Hans  Theodore's.  Let  me  tell  you." 
Then  she  told  him  of  her  dazed  wanderings  down 
the  river  road  two  months  before,  and  of  her  meal 
near  old  Teddy's  shack. 

"He  brought  me  fried  fish  on  a  cracked  plate, 
and  buttermilk  in  a  silver  drinking-cup — a  queer 
pattern  with  a  monogram  on  the  side.  The  next 
morning  I  saw  another  cup  exactly  like  that  on  the 
buffet  in  the  Macpherson  dining-room.  They  told 
me  there  should  be  two  of  them.  One  they  found 
was  suddenly  missing.  Later  it  suddenly  was  not 
missing.  York  said  their  like  was  not  to  be  had 
this  side  of  old  'Castle  Cluny'  on  the  ancient 
Kingussie  holding  of  the  invincible  Clan  Macpher- 
son's  forebears.  So  this  must  have  been  the  same 
cup.  It  was  on  the  morning  after  you  called  and 
took  the  old  Teddy  Bear  home  with  you  that  the 

278 


JIM    SWAIM'S    WISH 

missing  cup  reappeared.  You  remember  he  was 
shambling  around  the  grounds  the  night  before, 
waiting  for  you?" 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  Joe  responded,  gravely. 

"Meantime  Laura  Macpherson  lost  her  purse. 
It  was  found  in  my  hand-bag.  I  believe  now  that 
the  one  that  took  it  became  frightened  or  some- 
thing,  and  tried  to  put  it  on  me.  Maybe  somebody 
knew  how  dreadfully  near  the  wall  I  was.  Then 
York  paid  me  lease  money,  as  I  told  you — three 
hundred  dollars.  It  was  in  my  purse  last  evening 
when  I  went  out  for  a  ride.  As  I  sat  in  the  side 
porch  alone,  earlier  in  the  evening,  I  saw  the  old 
Teddy  Bear  shamble  and  shuffle  about  the  shrub 
bery  and  disappear  down  the  slope  in  the  shadows 
on  the  town  side  of  the  place.  This  morning  my 
money  is  all  gone.  I  am  going  down  here  after  it." 

"And  you  didn't  ask  York  to  help  you?"  Joe 
queried,  anxiously. 

"Why,  no.  I  wanted  you  to  help  me.  Will  you 
do  it?"  Jerry  asked,  looking  up  into  the  earnest 
face  of  the  big  farmer  beside  her. 

Was  it  selfishness,  or  thoughtlessness,  or  love  of 
startling  adventure,  or  insight,  or  fate  bringing 
her  this  way?  Joe  Thomson  asked  himself  the 
question  in  vain. 

"I'll  do  whatever  I  can  do.  This  is  such  a 
strange  thing.  I  knew  things  were  missing  by 
spells  up  in  town,  but  we  never  lose  anything  down 
our  way,  and  you'd  think  we  would  come  nearer 

279 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

having  what  old  Fishing  Teddy  would  want  if  he 
is  really  a  thief,"  Joe  declared. 

"I  am  going  down  to  old  Teddy 's  shack  and 
ask  him  to  give  me  my  money,  anyhow,"  Jerry 
repeated. 

"And  if  he  has  it  and  refuses,  I'll  pitch  him  into 
the  river  and  hold  him  under  till  he  comes  across. 
But  if  he  really  hasn't  it?"  Joe  asked. 

"Then  he  can't  give  it,  that's  all,"  Jerry  replied. 

"But  how  will  you  know?"  Joe  insisted. 

"I  don't  know  how  I'll  know,  but  when  the  time 
comes  I'll  probably  find  a  way  to  find  out,"  Jerry 
declared.  "Anyhow,  I  must  do  something,  for 
I'm  clear  penniless  and  it's  this  or  go  mad  or  go 
back  East.  I'm  not  going  to  do  either.  I'm  just 
going  to  get  mad  and  stay  mad  till  I  get  what's 
mine." 

"I'll  be  your  faithful  sleuth,  but  I  can't  believe 
you'll  find  your  bag  of  gold  at  the  end  of  this 
rainbow.  The  old  man  is  gentle,  though,  and  you 
couldn't  have  any  fear,  I  suppose,"  Joe  suggested. 

"Not  with  you  along  I  couldn't,"  Jerry  replied. 

She  was  watching  the  road,  and  did  not  see  how 
his  eyes  filled  with  a  wonderful  light  at  her  words. 
She  was  not  thinking  of  Joe  Thomson,  nor  of 
York  Macpherson,  nor  yet  of  Junius  Brutus  Ponk. 
She  was  thinking  far  back  in  her  mind  of  how 
Eugene  Wellington  would  admire  her  some  day 
for  really  not  giving  in.  That  faint  line  of  inde 
cision  in  his  face  as  she  recalled  it  in  the  rose- 

280 


JIM   SWAIM'S    WISH 

arbor — oh,  so  long  ago — that  was  only  emphasized 
by  his  real  admiration  for  those  who  could  stand 
fast  by  a  determination.  She  had  always  dared. 
He  had  always  adored,  but  never  risked  a 
danger. 

Down  by  the  deep  fishing-hole  the  willows  were 
beginning  to  droop  their  long  yellow  leaves  on 
the  diminishing  stream,  and  the  stepping-stones 
stood  out  bare  and  bleaching  above  the  thin  cur 
rent  that  slipped  away  between  them.  A  little 
blue  smoke  was  filtering  out  from  the  stove-pipe 
behind  the  shack  hidden  among  the  bushes.  Every 
thing  lay  still  under  the  sunshine  of  late  summer. 

"You  keep  the  car.  I'm  going  in,"  Jerry  de 
clared,  halting  in  the  thin  shade  by  the  deep  hole. 

"I  think  I'd  better  go,  too,"  Joe  insisted. 

"I  think  not,"  Jerry  said,  with  a  finality  in  her 
tone  there  was  no  refuting. 

York  Macpherson  had  well  said  that  there  was 
no  duplicate  for  Jerry,  no  forecasting  just  what  she 
would  do  next. 

As  Jerry's  form  cast  a  shadow  across  his  door 
way  old  Fishing  Teddy  turned  with  a  start  from 
a  bowl  of  corn-meal  dough  that  he  was  stirring. 
The  little  structure  was  a  rude  domicile,  fitted  to 
the  master  of  it  in  all  its  features.  On  a  plain 
unpainted  table  Jerry  saw  a  roll  of  bills  weighted 
down  by  an  old  cob  pipe.  A  few  coins  were  neatly 
stacked  beside  them,  with  a  pearl-handled  knife 

and  button-hook  lying  farther  away. 
19  281 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"I  came  for  my  money,"  Jerry  said,  quietly. 
'"It's  all  I  have  until  I  can  earn  some  myself." 

The  old  man's  fuzzy  brown  cheeks  seemed  to 
grow  darker,  as  if  his  blush  was  of  a  color  with 
the  rest  of  his  make-up.  He  shuffled  quickly  to 
the  table,  gathered  up  all  the  money,  and,  coming 
nearer,  silently  laid  it  in  Jerry's  hands. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  curiously.  It  was  as  if 
he  were  handing  her  a  handkerchief  she  had 
dropped,  and  she  caught  herself  saying: 

"Thank  you.  But  what  made  you  take  it? 
Don't  you  know  it  is  all  I  have,  and  I  must  earn 
my  living,  too,  just  like  anybody  else?" 

Old  Fishing  Teddy  opened  his  mouth  twice  be 
fore  his  voice  would  act.  "I  didn't  take  it.  I 
was  goin'  to  fetch  it  up  to  you  soon  as  I  could  git 
up  there  again,"  he  squeaked  out  at  last. 

Jerry  sat  down  on  a  broken  chair  and  stared 
at  him,  as  he  seated  himself  on  the  table, 
gripping  the  edge  on  either  side  with  his  scaly 
brown  hands,  and  gazed  down  at  the  floor  of  the 
cabin. 

"If  you  didn't  take  it,  why  did  you  have  it 
here?  I  saw  you  last  night  on  Macpherson's  drive 
way,"  Jerry  said,  wondering,  meanwhile,  why  she 
should  argue  with  an  old  thieving  fellow  like  Fish 
ing  Teddy — Jerusha  Darby's  niece  and  heir  some 
fine  day,  if  she  only  chose,  to  all  of  the  Darby 
dollars. 

"I  can't  never  explain  to  you,  lady.     They's 

282 


JIM    SWAIM'S    WISH 

troubles  in  everybody's  lots,  I  reckon.  Mine  ain't 
nothin'  but  a  humble  one,  but  it  ain't  so  much 
different  from  big  folks's  in  trouble  ways.  An* 
we  all  have  to  do  the  best  we  can  with  what  comes 
to  us  to  put  up  with.  I  'ain't  never  harmed  no 
body,  nor  kep'  a  thing  'at  wa'n't  mine  longer  'n 
I  could  git  it  back.  You  ask  York  Macpherson, 
an'  he'll  tell  ye  the  truth.  He  never  sent  ye  down 
here,  York  didn't." 

The  old  man  ceased  squeaking  and  looked  down 
at  his  stubby  legs  and  old  shoes.  Was  he  lying 
and  whining  for  mercy,  being  caught  with  the  spoils 
of  his  thieving? 

Jerry's  big  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  as  she  tried 
to  fathom  the  real  situation.  The  bunch  of  grubs 
on  the  Winnowoc  local — common  country  and  vil 
lage  folk — had  been  far  below  her  range  of  inter 
est,  to  say  nothing  of  sympathy.  Yet  here  she  sat 
in  the  miserable  shack  of  a  hermit  fisherman,  an 
all-but-acknowledged  thief,  with  his  loot  discov 
ered,  studying  him  with  a  mind  where  pity  and 
credulity  were  playing  havoc  with  her  better  judg 
ment  and  her  aristocratic  breeding.  Had  she  fallen 
so  low  as  this,  or  had  she  risen  to  a  newer  height 
of  character  than  she  had  ever  known  before? 

Suddenly  the  old  grub  hunched  down  on  the 
table  before  her  looked  up.  Jerry  remembered 
afterward  how  clear  and  honest  the  gaze  of  those 
faded  yellow  eyes  set  in  a  multitude  of  yellow 
wrinkles.  His  hands  let  go  of  the  table's  edge  and 

283 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

fitted  knuckle  into  palm  as  he  asked,  in  a  quaver 
ing  voice: 

"Be  you  really  Jim  S warm's  girl  who  used  to 
live  up  in  that  there  Winnowoc  country  back 
yander  in  Pennsylvany?" 

Jerry's  heart  thumped  violently.  It  was  the 
last  word  she  had  expected  from  this  creature. 
"Yes,  I'm  Jim's  only  child."  The  same  winsome 
smile  that  made  the  artistic  Eugene  Wellington 
of  Philadelphia  adore  her  beamed  now  on  this  poor 
old  outcast  down  by  the  deep  hole  of  the  Sage 
Brush. 

"An'  be  you  hard  up,  an*  earnin*  your  own  livin' 
by  yourself,  did  ye  say?  'Ain't  ye  got  a  rich  kin 
back  East  to  help  ye  none?"  The  voice  quavered 
up  and  down  unsteadily. 

"Yes,  I  have  a  rich  aunt,  but  I'm  taking  care 
of  myself.  It  makes  me  freer,  but  I  have  to  be 
particular  not  to — to — lose  any  money  right  now," 
Jerry  said,  frankly. 

"Then  ye  air  doin'  mighty  well,  an*  it's  the  thing 
that  'u'd  make  your  daddy  awful  glad  ef  he  only 
could  know.  It  'u'd  be  fulfillin'  his  own  wish.  I 
know  it  would.  I  heered  him  say  so  onct." 

Jerry  Swaim's  eyes  were  full  of  unshed  tears. 
Keenly  she  remembered  when  Uncle  Cornie  had 
told  her  the  same  thing  at  the  doorway  of  the 
rose-arbor  in  beautiful  "Eden"  in  the  beautiful 
June-time.  How  strange  that  the  same  message 
should  come  to  her  again  here  in  the  shadow  of 

284 


JIM   SWAIM'S    WISH 

New  Eden  inside  the  doorway  of  a  fisherman's  hut. 
And  how  strange  a  thing  is  life  at  any  time! 

"Please  don't  be  unhappy  about  this."  Jerry 
lifted  the  money  which  lay  in  her  lap.  "It  shall 
never  trouble  you." 

And  then  for  a  brief  ten  minutes  the  two  talked 
together,  Geraldine  Swaim  of  Philadelphia,  and 
old  Fishing  Teddy,  the  Sage  Brush  hermit. 

Joe  Thomson,  sitting  in  the  gray  car,  saw  Jerry 
coming  through  the  bushes,  her  hat  in  her  hand, 
the  summer  sunshine  on  her  glorious  crown  of  hair, 
her  face  wearing  a  strange  new  expression,  as  if 
in  Fishing  Teddy's  old  shack  a  revelation  of  life's 
realities  had  come  to  her  and  she  had  found  them 
worthy  and  beautiful. 

Little  was  said  between  the  two  young  people 
until  they  reached  the  Thomson  ranch-house  again 
and  Jerry  had  halted  her  car  under  the  shade  of 
an  elm  growing  before  the  door.  Then,  turning 
to  Joe,  she  said: 

"You  are  right  about  the  old  Teddy  Bear.  He 
isn't  a  thief.  I  don't  know  what  he  is,  but  I  do 
know  what  he  isn't.  Since  you  know  so  much 
about  my  coming  here  already,  may  I  tell  you  a 
few  more  things?  I  want  to  talk  to  somebody  who 
will  understand  me." 

Jerry  did  not  ask  herself  why  she  should  choose 
Joe  Thomson  for  such  a  confidence.  She  went  no 
deeper  than  to  feel  that  something  about  Joe  was 
satisfying,  and  that  was  sufficient.  Henceforth 

285 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

with  York  and  the  hotel-keeper  she  must  be  on 
her  guard.  Joe  was  different. 

In  the  half-hour  that  followed  the  two  became 
fast  friends.  And  when  the  little  gray  runabout 
sped  up  the  long  trail  toward  New  Eden  Joe 
Thomson  watched  it  until  it  was  only  a  dust-spot 
on  the  divide  that  tops  the  slopes  down  to  Kin- 
gussie  Creek.  He  knew  now  the  whole  story  of 
Laura's  purse  and  her  suspicions,  of  Ponk's  offer 
of  help,  and  he  shrewdly  guessed  that  the  pompous 
little  man  had  met  a  firm  check  to  anything  more 
than  mere  friendship.  For  Jerry's  comfort,  he 
refuted  the  possibility  of  the  Macphersons'  harbor 
ing  a  doubt  regarding  her  honesty. 

"A  mere  remark  of  the  moment.  We  all  make 
them,"  he  assured  her. 

Lastly,  he  was  made  acquainted  with  the  events 
inside  of  Hans  Theodore's  shack. 

"Something  is  wrong  there,  but  it  is  deeper 
than  we  can  reach  now,"  Jerry  said.  "Maybe  we 
can  help  the  old  fellow  if  he  is  tempted,  and  shield 
him  if  he  is  wronged." 

How  fair  the  face,  and  soft  and  clear  the  voice! 
It  made  Joe  Thomson's  own  face  harden  to  hide 
a  feeling  he  would  not  let  reveal  itself. 

As  he  watched  the  girl's  receding  car  he  resolved 
anew  to  conquer  that  formless  enemy  of  sand  and 
to  reclaim  for  her  her  lost  kingdom  in  Kansas. 
His  reward?  That  must  come  in  its  own  time. 
Ponk  was  out  of  the  running.  York  was  still  a 

286 


JIM   SWAIM'S   WISH 

proposition.  As  for  all  that  stuff  of  York's  about 
some  Eastern  fellow,  Joe  would  not  believe  it. 

And  the  girl  driving  swiftly  homeward  thought 
only  of  the  romance  of  Joe  and  Thelma,  if  she 
thought  of  them  at  all — for  she  was  Lesa  Swaim's 
child  still — and  mainly  and  absorbedly  she  thought 
of  her  father's  wish  to  be  fulfilled  in  her. 

So  the  glorious  Kansas  autumn  brought  to 
Jerry  Swaim  all  of  its  beauty,  in  its  soft  air,  its 
opal  skies,  its  gold-and-brown-and-lavender  land 
scapes,  its  calm  serenity.  And  under  its  benedic 
tion  this  girl  of  luxurious,  idle,  purposeless  days 
in  sunny  "Eden"  on  the  Winnowoc  was  beginning 
a  larger  existence  in  New  Eden  by  the  Sage  Brush, 
and  through  the  warp  and  woof  of  that  existence 
one  name  was  all  unconsciously  woven  large — JOE. 


XV 


DRAWING    OUT    LEVIATHAN   WITH    A   HOOK 


three  years  the  seasons  sped  by,  soft- 
footed  and  swift,  and  the  third  June-time 
came  smiling  up  the  Sage  Brush  Valley.  Many 
changes  had  marked  the  passing  of  these  seasons. 
Ranches  had  extended  their  cultivated  acres;  trees 
spread  a  wider  shade;  a  newly  settled  addition 
had  extended  the  boundaries  of  New  Eden;  and 
a  new  factory  and  a  high-school  building  for  vo 
cational  training  marked  the  progress  of  the  town. 
Budding  youth  had  blossomed  into  manhood  and 
womanhood  and  the  cemetery  had  gathered  in  its 
toll.  Three  years,  however,  had  marked  little  out 
ward  change  in  the  young  Eastern  girl  who  stayed 
by  her  choice  of  the  Sage  Brush  country  for  better, 
for  worse,  for  richer,  for  poorer.  She  had  flung 
all  of  her  young  energy  into  the  dull  routine  of 
teaching  mathematics;  romance  had  given  place 
to  reality;  idleness  and  careless  dependence  to 
regulated  effort  and  carefully  computed  expendi 
tures;  gay  social  interests  to  the  companionship  of 
lesser  opportunities,  but  broader  vision.  However, 

288 


DRAWING  OUT  LEVIATHAN  WITH  A  HOOK 

these  things  came  at  a  sacrifice.  When  the  newness 
wore  away  from  her  work,  Jerry's  hours  were  not 
all  easeful,  happy  ones.  Slowly,  with  the  passing 
of  the  days,  she  began  to  learn  the  hard  lesson  of 
overcoming,  a  lesson  doubly  hard  for  one  whose 
life  hitherto  had  been  given  no  preparation  for 
duty.  Yet,  as  her  days  gathered  surer  purpose 
her  dark-blue  eyes  were  less  often  dreamy,  her  fair 
cheeks  took  on  a  richer  bloom,  while  her  crown 
of  glorious  hair  lost  no  glint  of  its  gold. 

Her  gift  of  winning  friends,  the  old  imperious 
power  to  make  herself  the  center  of  the  universe, 
was  in  no  wise  disturbed  by  being  a  citizen  and  a 
school-teacher  instead  of  an  Eastern  lady  of  leisure 
sojourning  temporarily  in  the  Sage  Brush  country. 
The  young  men  of  the  valley  tried  eagerly  to  win 
a  greater  place  than  that  of  mere  friendship  with 
her,  but  she  gave  no  serious  consideration  to  any 
of  them,  least  of  all — so  she  persuaded  herself — to 
the  young  ranchman  whom  she  had  met  so  early 
after  her  arrival  in  Kansas.  Further,  she  had  per 
suaded  herself  that  the  pretty  rural  romance  she 
had  woven  about  him  and  his  Norwegian  neigh 
bor,  Thelma  Ekblad,  must  be  a  reality.  Thelma 
had  finished  her  university  course  and  was  making 
a  success  of  farming  and  of  caring  for  her  crippled 
brother  Paul  and  that  roly-poly  Belkap  baby,  now 
a  white-haired,  blue-eyed,  red-lipped  chunk  of 
innocence,  responsibility,  and  delight.  Gossip,  be 
ginning  at  Stellar  Bahrr's  door,  said  that  interest 

289 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

in  her  neighbor,  the  big  ranchman  down  the  river, 
was  responsible  for  Thelma's  staying  on  the  Ekblad 
farm,  now  that  she  had  her  university  degree,  be 
cause  she  could  make  a  career  for  herself  as  a 
botany  specialist  in  any  college  in  the  West.  Jerry 
knew  that  love  for  a  crippled  brother  and  the  care 
of  a  worse  than  orphaned  child  of  the  woman  that 
brother  had  loved  were  real  factors  in  the  life  of 
this  country  girl,  but  her  air  castles  must  be  built 
for  somebody,  and  they  seemed  to  cluster  around 
the  young  Norwegian  and  the  ranchman.  Of 
course,  then,  the  ranchman,  Joe  Thomson,  could 
interest  Jerry  only  in  a  general  genial  comradeship 
kind  of  way.  Beginning  in  a  common  bond,  the 
presence  of  a  common  enemy — the  blowout — 
chance  meetings  grew  into  regular  and  helpful  asso 
ciation.  That  was  all  that  it  meant  to  Jerry  Swaim. 
Three  stanch  friends  watched  her  closely. 
Ponk,  of  the  Commercial  Hotel  and  Garage,  be 
lieved  blindly  and  wholly  in  her  ability,  laying  all 
blame  for  her  defective  work  in  the  school  upon 
other  shoulders,  standing  manfully  by  her  in  every 
crisis.  Laura  Macpherson,  although  never  blinded 
to  the  truth  about  Jerry  in  her  impetuous,  self- 
willed,  unsympathetic,  undeveloped  nature,  loved 
her  too  well  to  doubt  her  ultimate  triumph  over 
all  fortune.  Only  York,  who  studied  her  closest 
of  all  three,  because  he  was  the  keenest  reader  of 
human  nature,  still  held  that  the  final  outcome 
for  Jerry  Swaim  was  a  matter  of  uncertainty. 

290 


DRAWING  OUT  LEVIATHAN  WITH  A  HOOK 

"I  tell  you,  Laura,"  York  said,  one  evening  in 
the  earfy  spring  of  the  tdiird  year,  when  Jerry  had 
gone  with  Joe  Thomson  for  a  long  horseback  ride 
up  the  Sage  Brush — "I  tell  you  that  girl  is  still  a 
type  of  her  own,  which  means  that  sometimes  she 
is  soft-hearted,  and  romantic,  and  frivolous,  and 
impulsive,  and  affectionate,  like  Lesa  Swaim,  and 
sometimes  clear-eyed,  hard-headed,  close-fisted, 
with  a  keen  judgment  for  values,  practical,  and 
clever,  like  old  Jim." 

"And  which  parent,  Sir  Oracle,  would  you  have 
her  be  most  like?"  Laura  inquired. 

"Lord  knows,"  York  replied.  "As  He  alone 
knows  how  much  of  the  good  of  each  she  may 
reject  and  how  much  of  the  weak  and  objectionable 
she  may  appropriate." 

"Being  a  free  moral  agent  to  just  dissect  her 
fond  parents  and  choose  and  refuse  at  will  when 
she  makes  up  her  life  and  being  for  herself!  It's 
a  way  we  all  have  of  doing,  you  know,"  Laura 
said,  sarcastically.  "Remember,  York,  when  you 
elected  to  look  like  papa,  only  you  chose  mother's 
wavy  brown  hair  instead  of  her  husband's  straight 
black  locks;  and  you  voted  you'd  have  her  clear 
judgment  in  business  matters,  which  our  father 
never  had." 

"And  gave  to  you  the  same  which  he  never 
possessed.  Yes,  I  remember,"  York  retorted. 
"But  how  is  all  this  psychological  analysis  going 
to  help  matters  here?" 

291 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"How's  it  going  to  help  Joe  Thomson,  or  keep 
him  from  being  helped,  you  mean?"  Laura  sug 
gested. 

A  faint  flush  crept  into  York  Macpherson's 
brown  cheek. 

"It's  dead  sure  Jerry  has  little  enough  thought 
of  Joe  now,"  York  said,  gravely.  "She's  living  a 
day  at  a  time,  and  underneath  the  three  years' 
veneer  of  genuine  service  the  real  Philadelphia 
Geraldine  Swaim  is  still  a  sojourner  in  the  Sage 
Brush  Valley,  not  a  fixture  here." 

And  York  was  right  so  far  as  Jerry  Swaim's 
thought  of  Joe  Thomson  was  concerned. 

After  signing  the  lease  with  York  Macpherson 
she  rarely  spoke  of  her  property  to  any  one  until 
it  came  to  be  forgotten  to  the  few  who  knew  of  it 
at  all. 

Once  she  had  said  to  Joe: 

"That  heritage  of  mine  is  like  the  grave  of  an 
enemy.  I  couldn't  look  at  it  forgivingly;  so  I 
would  never,  never  want  to  see  it  again,  and  I 
never  want  to  hear  the  awful  word  'blowout' 
spoken." 

"Then  forget  it,"  Joe  advised. 

And  Jerry  forgot  it. 

But  for  Joe  Thomson  the  seasons  held  another 
story.  Down  the  Sage  Brush,  fall  and  spring, 
great  steam  tractors  furrowed  the  shifting  sands 
of  the  blowout,  until  slowly  broom-corn  and  other 
coarse  plants  were  coaxing  a  thin  soil  deposit  that 

292 


DRAWING  OUT  LEVIATHAN  WITH  A  HOOK 

spread  northward  from  the  south  edge  of  the  sand- 
line.  Little  attention  was  paid  to  these  efforts  by 
the  few  farmer  folk  who  supposed  that  Joe  was 
backing  it,  for  they  were  all  a  busy  people,  and  the 
movement  was  too  futile  to  be  considered,  anyhow. 

Late  in  the  summer  of  her  first  season  in  New 
Eden,  affairs  came  to  a  head  suddenly.  Three 
years  before,  Junius  Brutus  Ponk's  well-meant 
warning  to  Jerry  to  be  on  her  guard  against  Stellar 
Bahrr's  mischief -making  had  not  been  without 
cause  or  results.  Before  the  opening  of  the  school 
year,  beginning  with  the  Len wells  as  a  go-between, 
percolating  up  through  families  where  fall  sewing 
was  in  progress,  on  to  the  Macphersons  and  their 
closest  friends,  the  impression  grew  toward  fact 
that  Jerry  was  a  sort  of  adventuress  who  had 
foisted  herself  upon  the  Macphersons  and  had  be 
fuddled  the  brain  of  the  vain  little  hotel-keeper, 
who  had  overruled  the  other  members  of  the  school 
board  and  forced  her  into  a  good  place  in  the  high 
school,  although  she  was  without  experience  or 
knowledge  of  the  branch  to  which  she  was  elected. 
And  then  she  met  young  men  in  the  cemetery  and 
rode  in  Ponk's  car  over  the  country  alone. 

One  of  the  easy  acts  of  the  average,  and  super- 
average,  mortal  is  to  respect  a  criticism  made  upon 
a  fellow-mortal — doing  it  most  generally  with  no 
conscious  malevolence,  prompted  largely  by  the 
common  human  desire  to  be  the  bearer  of  new 
discoveries. 

293 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

New  Eden  was  no  worse  than  the  average  little 
town  at  any  point  of  the  compass.  It  took  Stellar 
Bahrr  at  her  par  value,  listened,  laughed,  and 
declared  it  disbelieved  her  stories — and  mainly  in 
that  spirit  repeated  them,  but  in  any  spirit  always 
repeated  them.  When  the  reports  of  Jerry  had 
gone  to  the  farthest  corners  of  town  they  came  at 
last  to  the  office  of  York  Macpherson.  And  it 
was  Ponk  himself  who  brought  them,  with  some 
unprintable  language  and  violent  denunciations 
of  certain  females  who  were  deadlier,  he  declared, 
than  any  males,  even  blackmails.  York  forgave 
the  atrocious  pun  because  of  the  righteous  wrath 
back  of  it.  He  knew  that  Ponk's  suit  with  Jerry 
failed  temporarily,  and  he  admired  the  little  man 
for  his  loyal  devotion  in  spite  of  it. 

The  Macphersons  had  completely  convinced 
Jerry  of  their  faith  in  her,  and  in  that  congenial 
association  she  had  almost  forgotten  the  incident 
of  the  porch  conversation  about  her.  To  Ponk's 
anxious  query,  "What  will  you  do?"  (nobody 
ever  said  "can"  to  York  Macpherson;  he  always 
could),  York  had  replied: 

"I  shall  go  straight  to  Jerry.  She  will  hear  it, 
anyhow,  and  she  has  displayed  such  a  deal  of 
courage  so  far  she'll  not  wither  under  this." 

"You  bet  she  won't,  York,  but  what  will  stop 
it?  I  mean  Stellar  Bahrr's  mischief -makin'.  She's 
subtler  than  the  devil  himself." 

"We'll  leave  that  to  Jerry.  She  may  have  a  way 

294 


DRAWING  OUT  LEVIATHAN  WITH  A  HOOK 

of  her  own.  You  never  can  tell  about  Jerry." 
As  he  spoke  York  was  turning  his  papers  over  in 
search  of  something  which  he  did  not  find,  and  he 
did  not  look  up  for  a  minute. 

"I'll  leave  the  matter  to  you  now,"  Ponk  said. 
"I  have  other  affairs  of  state  to  engross  my  atten 
tion,"  and  he  left  the  office,  muttering  as  he 
strutted  across  to  the  garage  door. 

"Thinks  he  can  pull  the  wool  over  my  eyes  by 
not  lookin'  at  me.  Well,  York  wouldn't  be  the 
best  man  on  the  Sage  Brush  if  he  didn't  fall  in 
love  with  Miss  Jerry.  She's  not  only  the  queen 
of  hearts;  she's  got  the  whole  deck,  includin'  the 
joker,  clear  buffaloed." 

York  was  true  to  his  word  as  to  telling  Jerry, 
when  the  three  were  on  the  porch  that  evening, 
what  was  in  the  air  and  on  the  lips  of  the  "town 
tattlers,"  as  he  called  them.  Jerry  listened  gravely. 
She  was  getting  used  to  things,  now,  that  three 
months  ago  would  have  overwhelmed  her — if  she 
hadn't  been  Jim  Swaim's  child.  When  he  had 
finished  and  Laura  was  about  to  pour  out  vials  of 
indignation,  Jerry  looked  up  without  a  line  on  her 
smooth  brow,  saying: 

"Will  you  go  over  to  Mrs.  Bahrr's  with  me  now, 
York?"  " 

York  rose  promptly,  questioning,  nevertheless, 
the  outcome  of  such  an  interview. 

Mrs.  Bahrr  had  just  followed  her  corkscrew  way 
up  to  the  side  gate  of  the  Macpherson  home  as 

295 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

the  two  left  the  porch,  when  she  heard  Jerry  call 
back  to  Laura: 

"If  we  find  Mrs.  Bahrr  at  home  we  won't  be 
gone  long." 

"And  if  you  don't?"  Laura  asked. 

The  answer  was  lost,  for  Mrs.  Bahrr  turned  and 
fled  across  lots,  by  alley  gate  and  side  walk-way 
and  vacant  yard,  to  her  own  rear  door.  One  of 
Mrs.  Bahrr's  strong  points  was  that  of  being  more 
ready  than  her  antagonist  and  her  habit  of 
thought  had  made  her  world  an  antagonistic  one. 

York  was  curious  to  see  how  Jerry  would  meet 
her  Waterloo,  for  that  was  what  this  encounter 
would  become  j  and  he  was  glad  that  she  had  asked 
him  to  go  with  her  instead  of  running  off  alone, 
as  she  had  done  when  she  wanted  to  see  her  estate. 

Seated  in  the  little  front  parlor,  Jerry  took  her 
time  to  survey  the  place  before  she  came  to  her 
errand.  It  was  a  very  humble  home,  with  a  rag 
carpet,  windows  without  draperies,  but  with  heavy 
blinds;  chairs  that  became  unsettled  if  one  rocked 
in  them;  cheap,  unframed  chromos  tacked  up  on 
the  walls;  an  old  parlor  organ;  and  a  stand  with  a 
crazy-quilt  style  of  cover  on  which  rested  a  dusty 
Bible.  York  saw  a  look  of  pity  in  Jerry's  eyes 
where  three  months  before  he  felt  sure  there  would 
have  been  only  disdain. 

Very  simply  and  frankly  the  girl  told  the  pur 
pose  of  her  call,  ending  with  what  might  have 
been  a  command,  but  it  was  spoken  in  the  clear, 

296 


DRAWING  OUT  LEVIATHAN  WITH  A  HOOK 

soft  voice  that  had  always  won  her  point  in  any 
argument. 

"Whether  these  stories  came  from  you  or  not 
you  will  be  sure  not  to  repeat  them." 

Stella  Bahrr  bristled  with  anger.  Whatever 
might  have  been  said  behind  her  back,  nobody 
except  York  Macpherson  and  Junius  Brutus  Ponk 
had  ever  spoken  so  plainly  to  her  face  before.  And 
they  had  never  spoken  in  the  presence  of  a  third 
party.  And  here  comes  a  pretty,  silly  young 
thing  with  a  child's  Sunday-school  talk  to  her, 
right  in  York's  presence,  in  her  own  house.  Jerry 
Swaim  would  pay  well  for  her  rudeness. 

"I  don't  know  as  it's  up  to  me  to  keep  still 
when  everybody's  talkin'.  I  won't  promise  nothin'. 
An'  I  'ain't  got  nothin'  to  be  afraid  of."  Mrs. 
Bahrr  hooked  her  eyes  viciously  into  her  caller. 

"I'm  afraid  of  a  good  many  things,  but  I'm  not 
so  very  much  afraid  of  people.  I  was  a  little 
afraid  of  you  the  first  time  I  saw  you.  You  re 
member  where  that  was,  of  course." 

Jerry  looked  straight  at  Mrs.  Bahrr  with  wide- 
open  eyes.  Something  in  her  face  recalled  Jim 
Swaim's  face  to  York  Macpherson,  and  he  forgot 
the  girl's  words  as  he  stared  at  her. 

"When  I  was  a  child,"  Jerry  continued,  "they 
used  to  say  to  me,  'The  goblins  '11  git  you  ef 
you  don't  watch  out/  Now  I  know  it  is  the  Teddy 
Bear  that  gits  you  ef  you  don't  watch  out." 

Mrs.  Bahrr's  lips  seemed  to  snap  together  and 

20  297 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

her  eyes  tore  their  way  out  of  Jerry  and  turned 
to  the  window.  Jerry  stepped  softly  across  to 
her  chair  and,  laying  a  hand  on  her  shoulder,  said, 
with  a  smile: 

"Hereafter  it  will  be  all  right  between  us." 

And  it  was — apparently. 

As  they  walked  slowly  homeward  York  and 
Jerry  said  little.  The  girl's  mind  was  busy  with 
thoughts  of  her  new  work — the  only  work  she  had 
ever  attempted  in  her  life;  and  York's  thoughts 
were  busy  with — Jerry. 

That  night  York  sat  alone  on  the  porch  of 
"Castle  Cluny"  until  far  toward  morning,  begin 
ning  at  last  to  fight  out  with  himself  the  great 
battle  of  his  life.  The  big,  kindly,  practical  man 
of  affairs,  arrow-proof,  bullet-proof,  bomb-proof 
to  all  the  munitions  of  Cupid,  courted  and  flat 
tered  and  admired  and  looked  up  to  by  a  whole 
community,  seemed  hopelessly  enmeshed  now  in 
the  ripples  of  golden-brown  hair,  held  fast  by  the 
beautiful  dark-blue  eyes  of  a  young  lady  whose 
strength  to  withstand  what  lay  before  her  he  very 
much  doubted. 

"If  I  speak  to  her  now,  she'll  run  away  from  us 
and  leave  Laura  lonely.  She  can't  go  to  the  hotel, 
because  I  know  Ponk  has  tried  and  failed.  I'm 
one  degree  behind  him  in  that.  Where  would  she 
go?  And  how  would  the  Big  Dipper  act?  I've 
no  faith  in  her  keeping  still  if  Jerry  did  use  some 
magic  on  her  to-night.  Nobody  will  ever  Rumpel- 

298 


DRAWING  OUT  LEVIATHAN  WITH  A  HOOK 

stilskin  her  out  of  herself.  I'll  be  a  man,  and  wait 
and  befriend  my  little  girl  whenever  I  can,  although 
I'm  forced  every  day  to  see  how  she  is  growing 
to  take  care  of  herself.  When  nothing  else  can  de 
cide  events,  time  is  sure  to  settle  them." 

All  this  happened  at  the  beginning  of  the  three 
years  whose  ending  came  in  a  June-time  on  the 
Kansas  plains.  Summer  and  winter,  many  a  Sab 
bath  afternoon  saw  the  hotel-keeper  and  the  pretty 
mathematics-teacher  strolling  out  to  the  cemetery 
"to  call  on  mother."  The  quaint,  firm  faith  of 
the  pompous  little  man  that  "mother  knew"  had 
no  place  in  Jerry  Swaim's  code  and  creed.  But 
she  never  treated  his  belief  lightly,  and  its  homely 
sincerity  at  length  began  to  bear  fruit. 

Not  without  its  lasting  effect,  too,  was  the  silent 
influence  of  Laura  Macpherson  upon  her  guest. 
The  bright,  happy  life  in  spite  of  a  hopeless  lame 
ness,  the  cheerful  giving  up  of  what  that  lameness 
denied  the  having,  all  unconsciously  wrought  its 
beauty  into  the  new  Jerry  whom  the  "Eden"  of 
an  earlier  day  had  never  known.  Nobody  remem 
bered  when  the  guest  and  friend  of  the  Mac- 
phersons  began  to  be  a  factor  in  the  New  Eden 
church  life,  but  everybody  knew  at  the  close  of  the 
third  year  that  the  churches  couldn't  do  without 
her.  And  neither  the  Baptist  minister,  holding 
tenaciously  to  salvation  by  immersion,  nor  the 
Presbyterian,  clinging  to  the  doctrine  of  infant 
damnation,  nor  the  Methodist,  demanding  instan- 

£99 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

taneous  revival-meeting  conversion  from  sin,  asked 
once  that  the  fair  Philadelphian  should  "become 
united  with  the  church."  That  would  necessitate 
the  query,  "Which  church?"  And  that  would 
mean  a  loss  to  two  and  a  gain  to  only  one.  As  far 
as  the  blowout  sand  differed  from  "Eden"  on  the 
Winnowoc,  so  far  Jerry's  religious  faith  now  dif 
fered  from  the  disbelief  that  followed  the  death  of 
her  father.  In  Kansas  where  the  artistic  Eugene 
Wellington  had  declared  his  own  faith  would 
perish,  she  had  learned  for  the  first  time  how  to 
pray. 

Letters  had  long  since  ceased  to  come  from  Aunt 
Jerry  Darby  to  her  niece,  although  in  a  friendly 
and  patiently  expectant  form  Eugene  Wellington 
wrote  beautiful  missives  breathing  more  and  more 
of  commercialized  ideals  and  less  and  less  of 
esthetic  dreams,  and  not  at  all  of  the  faith  that 
had  marked  the  spiritual  refinement  of  his  young 
manhood. 

The  third  spring  brought  busy,  trying  days.  A 
sick  teacher  made  it  necessary  for  the  well  ones  to 
do  double  work.  The  youngest  Lenwell  boy, 
leader  of  the  Senior  class,  started  the  annual  and 
eternally  trivial  and  annoying  Senior-class  fuss 
that  seems  fated  to  precede  most  high-school  com 
mencements.  For  two  years  it  had  been  Jerry 
Swaim,  whose  mathematical  mind  seemed  gifted 
with  a  wonderful  generalship,  who  had  managed 
to  bring  the  class  to  harmony  with  an  ease  never 

300 


DRAWING  OUT  LEVIATHAN  WITH  A  HOOK 

known  in  the  New  Eden  High  School  before. 
This  year  Clare  Lenwell  was  perfectly  irrecon 
cilable,  and  Jerry,  overworked,  as  willing  teachers 
always  are,  was  too  busy  to  bring  the  belligerents 
to  time  before  the  bitterness  of  a  town-split  was 
upon  the  community.  When  she  did  come  to  the 
rescue  of  the  superintendent,  his  own  inefficiency 
to  cope  with  the  case  became  so  evident  that  he 
at  once  turned  against  the  young  woman  who 
"tried  to  run  things,"  as  he  characterized  her  to 
the  school  board. 

That  caused  an  explosion  of  heavy  artillery  from 
the  "Commercial  Hotel  and  Garage,"  which  made 
one  member  of  the  board,  an  uncle  of  young  Len 
well,  to  rise  in  arms,  and  thus  and  so  the  fires  of 
dissension  crisscrossed  the  town,  threatening  to 
fulmine  over  the  whole  Sage  Brush  Valley.  To 
make  the  matter  more  difficult,  the  town  trouble 
maker,  Stellar  Bahrr,  for  once  seemed  to  have 
been  innocently  drawn  into  the  thing,  and  every 
body  knew  it  was  better  to  have  Stellar  Bahrr's 
good-will  than  to  start  her  tongue. 

York  Macpherson  and  Junius  Brutus  Ponk  both 
felt  sure  that  Stellar  had  really  stirred  up  the  Len- 
wells,  for  whom  she  was  constantly  sewing;  and, 
besides,  a  distant  relative  of  theirs  had  married 
into  the  Bahrr  family  back  where  Stellar  came 
from,  "which  must  have  been  the  Ark,"  Ponk 
declared,  "and  the  other  one  of  the  pair  died  of 

seasickness."    Anyhow,  the  local  school  row  be- 
so  i 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

came  the  local  town  row,  and  it  was  a  very  real 
and  bitter  row. 

In  these  days  of  little  foxes  that  were  threatening 
the  whole  vineyard,  Jerry  turned  more  and  more 
to  Joe  Thomson.  All  of  New  Eden  was  tied  up  in 
the  fuss,  took  sides,  and  talked  it,  except  the  Mac- 
phersons  and  a  few  of  their  friends,  and  they  talked 
it  without  taking  sides  because  the  thing  was  in  the 
air  constantly.  Jerry  could  not  find  even  in  "  Castle 
Cluny  "  a  refuge  from  what  was  uninteresting  to  her 
and  thoroughly  distasteful  in  itself.  Ponk,  being 
by  nature  a  rabid  little  game-cock,  was  full  of  the 
thing,  and  was  no  more  companionable  than  the 
Macphersons.  But  when  the  quiet  ranchman  came 
up  from  the  lower  Sage  Brush  country,  his  dark 
eyes  glowing  with  pleasure  and  his  poised  mind 
unbiased  by  neighborhood  failings,  he  brought  the 
breath  of  sweet  clover  with  his  coming.  When 
Jerry  came  home  from  their  long  rides  up-stream 
— they  never  rode  toward  the  blowout  region — 
she  felt  as  if  she  had  a  new  grip  on  life  and  energy 
and  ambition  for  her  work.  Joe  was  becoming, 
moreover,  the  best  of  entertainers,  and  the  com 
radeship  was  the  one  thing  Jerry  had  learned  to 
prize  most  in  her  new  life  in  the  Middle  West. 

.When  the  spring  had  slipped  into  early  May 
Joe's  visits  grew  less  frequent,  on  account 
of  his  spring  work.  And  once  or  twice  he  came 
to  town  and  hurried  away  without  even  seeing 
Jerry.  It  comforted  her  greatly — she  did  not  ask 

302 


DRAWING  OUT  LEVIATHAN  WITH  A  HOOK 

herself  why — that  he  did  drop  a  note  into  the 
post-office  for  her,  telling  her  he  was  in  town  and 
regretting  that  he  must  hurry  out  without  calling. 

It  was  during  this  time  that  Thehna  Ekblad 
came  up  to  New  Eden  to  do  some  extensive  shop 
ping  and  spend  a  week  with  the  Macphersons. 
There  were  other  guests  at  "Castle  Cluny,"  and 
Thelma  and  Jerry  shared  the  same  room. 

Back  in  "Eden"  the  heir  apparent  would  never 
have  dreamed  of  sharing  anything  with  a  Winno- 
wocgrub.  How  times  change  us!  Or  do  we  change 
them? 

Thelma  was  sunny-natured,  spotlessly  neat  in 
her  dress,  and  altogether  vastly  more  companion 
able  to  Jerry  than  the  Lenwell  girls,  who  would 
persist  in  pleading  their  little  high-school  Senior 
brother's  cause;  or  even  the  associate  teachers, 
who  were  troubled  and  tired  and  overworked  like 
herself. 

Jerry  had  met  Thelma  often,  and  thought  of  her 
of tener,  in  the  three  years  since  they  had  come  upon 
the  Sage  Brush  branch  of  the  local  freight  together 
one  hot,  sand-blown  June  day,  three  summers 
before.  She  had  woven  a  romance  about  Thelma. 
Romances  seemed  now  to  belong  to  other  people. 
They  never  came  to  her.  She  was  glad,  however, 
when  Thelma's  shopping  was  done  and  she  went 
back  to  the  farm  down  the  Sage  Brush,  and  her 
brother  Paul,  and  the  growing,  joyous  Belkap 
child  who  filled  the  plain  farm-house  with  interest. 

303 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

Stellar  Bahrr,  in  Jerry's  presence,  had  spoken  ill 
of  no  one  since  the  memorable  call  three  years  ago. 
On  the  evening  after  Thelma  left  town  she  cork 
screwed  over  to  "Castle  Cluny  "  for  a  friendly  chat 
with  Laura. 

"I  run  in  to  see  Thelmy  Ekblad.  She  'ain't 
gone  home,  is  she?  Got  her  shopping  all  done 
a'ready?  Some  girls  can  buy  their  weddin'  finery 
quicker  'n  scat.  Did  she  say  who  was  to  make 
that  new  white  dress  she  was  buyin'  yesterday  at 
the  Palace  Emporium?"  This  straight  at  Jerry, 
who  was  resting  lazily  in  the  porch  swing  after  an 
unusually  annoying  day. 

"Not  to  me,"  Jerry  replied,  sliding  another  pil 
low  behind  her  shoulders  and  leaning  back  com 
fortably. 

"Well,  well!  I  s'posed  girls  always  told  them 
things  to  each  other.  'Specially  if  they  slep'  to 
gether.  She's  gettin'  a  mighty  fine  man,  though — 
Thelmy  is — at  least,  folks  says  she's  gettin'  him. 
He's  there  a  lot,  'specially  'long  this  spring.  His 
farm's  right  near  her  and  Paul's.  And  she's  one 
prince  of  a  girl.  Don't  you  say  so,  Miss  Swim?" 

Jerry  smiled  in  spite  of  herself,  saying:  "Yes, 
she's  a  prince  of  a  girl.  I  like  her."  And  then, 
because  she  was  tired  that  night,  both  of  Stellar 
and  her  topic,  and  the  whole  Sage  Brush  Valley, 
she  turned  away  that  neither  Laura  nor  Stellar 
might  see  how  much  she  wanted  to  cry. 

But  turning  was  futile.    Mrs.  Bahrr's  eyes  went 

304 


DRAWING  OUT  LEVIATHAN  WITH  A  HOOK 

right  through  the  girl  and  she  knew  her  shaft  had 
hit  home. 

Joe  had  not  been  to  town  for  weeks.  It  didn't 
matter  to  Jerry.  Yet  the  next  day  after  Stellar's 
call  lacked  something — and  the  next  and  the  next. 
Not  a  definite  lack,  for  Jerry's  future  was  settled 
forever. 

Down  on  the  Sage  Brush  ranches  Joe  Thomson 
was  trying  to  believe  that  things  wouldn't  matter, 
too,  if  they  failed  to  go  his  way.  These  were 
lonely  days  for  the  young  ranchman,  who  saw 
little  of  Jerry  Swaim  because  every  possible  min 
ute  of  his  time  was  given  to  wrestling  with  the 
blowout. 

There  were  many  more  lonely  days,  also,  for 
Jerry,  who  now  began  to  miss  Joe  more  than  she 
thought  it  could  be  possible  to  miss  anybody  ex 
cept  Gene  Wellington,  idealized  into  a  sad  and 
beautiful  memory  that  kept  alive  an  unconscious 
hope.  And,  with  all  her  energy  and  her  determina 
tion,  many  things  combined  to  make  her  school 
room  duty  a  hard  task  to  one  whose  training  had 
been  so  unfitting  for  serious  labor.  The  flesh-pots 
of  the  Winnowoc  came  temptingly  to  her  memory, 
and  there  were  weary  hours  when  the  struggle  to 
be  sure  and  satisfied  was  greater  than  her  friends 
could  have  dreamed. 

The  third  winter  of  her  stay  had  seen  an  un 
usual  snowfall  for  the  Sage  Brush,  and  this  spring 
following  was  an  unusually  rainy  one.  Every- 

305 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

where  rank  vegetation  flourished,  prairies  reveled 
in  luxurious  growths,  and  cultivated  fields  were 
burdened  with  the  promise  of  record-breaking 
harvests. 

York  Macpherson's  business  had  begun  to  call 
him  to  the  East  for  prolonged  trips,  and  he  had 
less  knowledge  than  formerly  of  the  details  of  the 
affairs  of  New  Eden  and  its  community. 

One  day  not  long  after  Thelma's  shopping  trip 
Joe  Thomson  dropped  into  the  office  of  the  Mac- 
pherson  Mortgage  Company. 

"How's  the  blowout?"  This  had  become  York's 
customary  greeting. 

"Never  gentler."  Joe's  face  was  triumphant 
and  his  dark  eyes  were  shining  with  hope.  "This 
rainy  season  and  the  good  old  steam-plows  are 
doing  their  perfect  work.  You  haven't  had  any 
sand-storms  lately,  maybe  you  have  noticed.  Well, 
wheat  is  growing  green  and  strong  over  more  than 
half  of  that  land  now.  There's  not  so  much  sand 
to  spare  as  there  used  to  be." 

"You  don't  mean  it!"  York  exclaimed,  incredu 
lously. 

"Go  and  look  at  it  yourself,  you  doubting  old 
Missourian  who  must  be  shown,"  Joe  retorted. 
"There's  a  stretch  on  the  northeast  toward  the 
bend  in  the  Sage  Brush  that  is  low  and  baked  hard 
after  the  rains,  and  shifty  and  infernally  stubborn 
in  the  dry  weather." 

York  meditated  awhile,  combing  his  heavy  hair 

306 


DRAWING  OUT  LEVIATHAN  WITH  A  HOOK 

with  his  fingers.  "The  river  runs  by  your  place?" 
he  asked,  at  length. 

"Yes,  my  house  is  right  at  the  bend,  and  there 
is  no  sand  across  the  Sage  Brush,"  Joe  replied. 

"Well,  the  blowout  will  never  stop  till  it  gets 
up  to  the  south  bank  of  the  bend.  As  I've  told 
you  already,  you'll  have  to  take  the  Lord  Almighty 
into  partnership  to  work  a  miracle.  Otherwise  this 
creeping  up  from  behind  and  beyond  the  thing 
will  be  a  never-ending  job  of  time  and  money  and 
labor.  You'll  never  catch  up  with  it.  It's  just 
too  everlastingly  big,  that's  all.  You'll  be  gray- 
bearded,  and  bald-headed,  and  deaf,  and  dim- 
sighted  before  you  are  through." 

"I  will  not,"  Joe  declared,  doggedly.  "And 
I've  already  told  you  that  I've  always  taken  the 
Lord  Almighty  into  partnership,  or  I'd  have  been 
a  derelict  on  a  sea  of  sand  lang  syne." 

"Joe,  your  faith  in  the  Lord  and  faith  in  the 
prairies  might  move  mountains,  but  they  haven't 
yet  moved  the  desert." 

"Not  entirely,"  Joe  replied,  "but  if  I  do  my 
part,  who  knows  what  Providence  may  do?" 

As  he  sat  there  in  the  hope  and  strength  of  his 
youth,  something  in  Joe  Thomson's  expectant  face 
brought  a  pang  to  the  man  beside  him. 

"Joe,  your  lease  will  soon  expire.  I  said  to  you 
three  years  ago  that  women  are  shiftier  than 
blowouts.  You  didn't  believe  me,  but  it's  the 
truth." 

307 


THE   RECLAIMERS 

"Naturally  the  Macpherson  Mortgage  Company 
must  acquire  much  knowledge  of  such  things  in 
the  development  of  their  business,"  Joe  responded, 
jokingly.  "Little  Thelma  Ekblad  on  the  claim 
above  mine  has  helped  to  pay  off  the  mortgage 
your  company  held,  and  sent  herself  to  the  uni 
versity,  working  in  the  harvest-fields  and  at  the 
hay-baler  to  do  it.  Thelma  never  seemed  shifty 
to  me.  She's  a  solid  little  rock  of  a  woman  who 
never  flinches." 

"I'll  except  Thelma.  You  ought— "  But  York 
went  no  further,  for  he  knew  Joe's  spirit  would  not 
respond  to  his  thought,  and  he  had  no  business  to 
be  thinking,  anyhow.  He  had  known  Joe  Thomson 
from  childhood.  He  admired  Jerry  Swaim  greatly 
for  what  she  had  been  doing,  but  he  knew  much 
of  the  Philadelphia  end  of  the  game,  and  his  heart 
ached  for  the  young  Westerner,  who,  he  believed, 
had  shouldered  a  stupendous,  tragical  burden  for 
the  sake  of  a  heart-longing  only  a  strong  nature 
like  Joe's  could  know. 

"By  the  way,  Jerry  Swaim's  aunt,  back  East, 
is  in  a  bad  way  and  may  die  at  any  time,  but  she 
will  never  forgive  Jerry  to  the  point  of  inheritance. 
I  happen  to  be  in  the  old  lady's  confidence  that 
far." 

"You  are  a  social  Atlas,  York,"  Joe  declared. 
"You  hold  the  world  on  your  shoulders.  But 
what  you  say  doesn't  interest  me  at  all.  So  don't 
prejudge  any  of  us,  maid  or  man." 

308 


DRAWING  OUT  LEVIATHAN  WITH  A  HOOK 

"And  don't  you  let  your  bloomin*  self-confidence 
and  ability  to  work  half-miracles  be  your  undo 
ing.  A  house  builded  on  the  sand  may  fall,where 
one  built  on^gold  dust  may  stand  firm,"  York 
retorted. 

"Do  you  believe  your  own  words?"  Joe  asked, 
rising  to  his  feet. 

"The  point  is  for  you  to  believe  them,  whether 
I  do  or  not,"  York  answered,  as  Joe  disappeared 
through  the  doorway. 

"Why,  in  the  name  of  fitness,  can't  that  fellow 
fall  in  love  with  that  little  Thelma  Ekblad,  a  girl 
who  knows  what  sacrifice  on  the  Sage  Brush  means 
and  who  has  a  grip  on  the  real  values  of  life?  Oh, 
well,  just  to  watch  the  crowd  run  awry  ought  to 
be  entertainment  enough  for  a  bachelor  like  my 
self,"  York  thought,  as  he  sat  staring  after  Joe. 
"I've  lived  to  see  a  few  half -miracles  myself  in 
the  last  decade.  Anybody  whose  lot  is  cast  in 
western  Kansas  can  see  as  many  of  them  as  the  old 
Santa  Fe  Trail  bull-whackers  saw  of  mirages  in 
the  awful  'fifties.  There's  a  lot  of  reclaiming 
being  done  on  the  Sage  Brush,  even  if  that  strug 
gle  of  Joe's  with  the  blowout  is  a  failure.  Thelma 
Ekblad  in  her  splendid  victory  over  ignorance, 
carrying  a  university  degree;  Stellar  Bahrr" — 
York  smiled,  "Ponk,  who  would  put  a  flourish 
after  his  name  if  he  were  signing  his  own  death- 
warrant,  the  little  hero  of  a  hundred  knocks,  living 
above  everything  but  his  funny  little  strut,  and 

309 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

he's  getting  over  that  a  bit;  old  Fishing  Teddy, 
brave  old  soul,  down  in  his  old  shack  alone; 
Jerry,  with  her  luxurious  laziness  and  doubt  in 
God  and  a  hereafter — all  winning  slowly  to  better 
things,  maybe;  but  as  to  sand  and  Joe — 

'"Canst  thou  draw  out  leviathan  with  a  hook?' 
You'll  never  do  it,  Joe,  never,  and  you'll  never 
win  the  goal  you've  set  your  heart  on.  Poor 
fellow!" 

That  night,  on  the  silent  porch  alone,  York 
finished  the  battle  he  had  begun  on  the  evening 
after  he  and  Jerry  had  called  on  Stellar  Bahrr. 

"It's  the  artist  bank  clerk  against  the  field, 
and  we'll  none  of  us  bat  above  his  average.  Good 
night,  old  moon,  and  good  night,  York,  to  what 
can't  be." 

He  waved  a  hand  at  the  dying  light  in  the  west, 
and  a  dying  hope,  and  went  inside. 


XVI 


A   POSTLUDE   IN    "EDEN' 


/CORNELIUS  DARBY  had  lain  in  his  beauti- 
^^  fully  decorated  grave  for  three  years,  and  a 
graceful  white  shaft  pointing  heavenward  amid 
the  shrubbery  had  become  a  landmark  for  the 
bunch  of  grubs  who  rode  the  Winnowoc  local. 

"Must  be  getting  close  to  the  deppo.  Yonder 
is  old  Corn  Darby's  gravestone  over  on  the  bluff," 
they  would  say,  as  the  train  chuffed  up  out  of 
the  valley  on  either  side  of  the  station.  That  was 
all  the  memory  of  him  that  remained,  save  as 
now  and  then  a  girl  in  a  far-away  Kansas  town 
remembered  a  June  evening  when  a  discus  shied 
out  from  its  course  and  rolled  to  the  door  of  a 
rose-arbor. 

But  "Eden,'r  as  a  country  estate,  lost  nothing 
by  the  passing  of  the  husband  of  its  lady  and 
mistress,  who  spared  none  of  the  Darby  dollars 
to  make  both  the  town  and  country  home  delight 
ful  in  all  appointments,  hoping  and  believing  that 
in  her  policy  of  stubbornness  and  force  she  could 
have  her  way,  and  bring  back  to  the  East  the  girl 


311 


THE   RECLAIMERS 

whom  she  would  never  invi'ce  to  return,  the  girl 
whose  future  she  had  determined  to  control.  The 
three  years  had  found  Jerusha  Darby's  will  to 
have  Jerry  Swaim  become  her  heir  under  her  own 
terms — mistaking  dependence  for  appreciation, 
and  idleness  for  happiness — had  ceased  to  be  will 
and  become  a  mania,  the  ruling  passion  of  her 
years  of  old  age.  She  never  dreamed  that  she 
was  being  adroitly  managed  by  her  husband's 
relative,  Eugene  Wellington,  but  she  did  recog 
nize,  and,  strangely  enough,  resent,  the  fact  that 
the  Darby  strain  in  his  blood  was  proving  itself 
in  his  ability,  not  to  earn  dollars,  but  to  make 
dollars  earn  dollars  once  they  were  put  plentifully 
into  his  hands. 

Since  Mrs.  Darby  had  only  one  life-purpose — 
to  leave  her  property  to  Jerry  Swaim  under  her 
own  terms — it  galled  her  to  think  of  it  passing  to 
the  hands  of  the  relatives  of  the  late  Cornelius. 
She  believed  that  love  of  Eugene  would  bring 
Jerry  back,  for  she  was  Lesa's  own  romance-lov 
ing  child — even  if  the  luxuries  that  wealth  can 
offer  should  fail;  and  she  had  coddled  Eugene 
Wellington  for  this  very  purpose.  But  after  three 
years  he  had  failed  to  satisfy  her.  She  was  becoming 
slowly  but  everlastingly  set  on  one  thing.  She 
would  put  her  property  elsewhere  by  will — when 
she  was  through  with  it.  She  could  not  do  without 
Eugene  as  long  as  she  lived — which  would  be 
indefinitely,  of  course.  But  she  would  have  her 

312 


A   POSTLUDE   IN   "EDEN" 

say — and  (in  a  whisper)  it  would  not  be  a  Darby 
nor  kin  of  a  Darby  who  might  be  sitting  around 
now,  waiting  for  her  to  pass  to  her  fathers,  who 
would  possess  it. 

In  this  intense  state  of  mind  she  called  Eugene 
out  to  "Eden"  in  the  late  May  of  the  third  year 
of  Jerry  Swaim's  stay  in  Kansas.  The  rose-arbor 
was  aglow  with  the  same  blossoming  beauty  as  of 
old,  and  all  the  grounds  were  a  dream  of  May- 
time  verdure. 

Eugene  Wellington,  driving  out  from  the  city 
in  a  big  limousine  car,  found  them  more  to  his 
taste  than  ever  before,  and  he  took  in  the  premises 
leisurely  before  going  to  the  arbor  to  meet  Mrs. 
Darby. 

"If  I  could  only  persuade  Jerry  to  come  now, 
all  would  be  well,"  he  meditated.  "And  I  have 
hopes.  The  last  news  of  her  tells  me  a  few  things. 
She  hasn't  fallen  in  love  with  York  Macpherson. 
He'd  hate  me  less  if  she  had,  and  he  detests  me. 
I  saw  that,  all  right,  when  he  was  here  last  month. 
And  she's  pretty  tired  of  the  life  of  the  wilderness. 
I  know  that.  If  she  would  come  right  now  it 
would  settle  things  forever.  I'd  go  after  her  if 
the  old  lady  would  permit  it.  I'd  go,  anyhow,  if  I 
dared.  But  I  must  keep  an  eye  on  Uncle  Cornie's 
widow  day  and  night,  and,  hungry  as  I  am  for 
one  glimpse  of  Jerry's  sweet  face,  I  couldn't  meet 
Jerusha  D.  in  her  wrath  if  I  disobeyed  her." 

Eugene  had  the  chauffeur  pause  while  he  sur- 

21  313 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

veyed  the  lilac-walk  and  the  big  maples  and  the 
lotus-pond. 

"If  Jerry  would  come  now"  he  began  again, 
with  himself,  "she  would  be  heir  to  all  this.  If 
she  doesn't  come  soon,  there's  trouble  ahead  for 
Eugene  of  the  soft  snaps.  To  the  rose-arbor, 
Henderson." 

So  Henderson  whirled  the  splendid  young  prod 
uct  to  the  doorway  of  the  pretty  retreat. 

Mrs.  Darby  met  her  nephew  with  a  sterner  face 
even  than  she  was  accustomed  to  wear. 

"I  want  to  see  you  at  once,"  she  said,  as  the 
young  man  loitered  a  moment  outside. 

"Yes,  Aunt  Jerry,"  he  responded,  dutifully 
enough — as  to  form. 

"What  have  you  heard  from  Jerry  recently?" 
she  demanded. 

"What  York  Macpherson  told  us — that  she  has 
had  a  hard  year's  work  in  a  school-room,"  Eugene 
replied. 

"Humph!  I  knew  that.  What  are  you  doing 
to  bring  her  back  to  me?"  Mrs.  Darby  snapped 
off  the  words. 

"Nothing  now!"  the  young  man  answered 
her. 

"'Nothing  now!'  Why  not?"  Mrs.  Darby  was 
in  her  worst  of  humors. 

"Because  there  is  positively  nothing  to  do  but 
to  wait,"  Eugene  said,  calmly.  "She  is  not  in 
love  anywhere  else.  She  is  getting  tired  and  dis- 

314 


A    POSTLUDE    IN    VEDEN" 

gusted  with  her  plebeian  surroundings,  and  as  to 
her  estate — '* 

"What  of  her  estate?  I  refused  to  let  York 
Macpherson  say  a  word,  although  he  tried  to  over 
rule  me.  I  told  him  two  things:  I'd  never  forgive 
Jerry  if  she  didn't  come  back  uninvited  by  me; 
and  I'd  never  listen  to  him  blow  a  big  Kansas 
story  of  her  wonderful  possessions.  What  do  you 
know?  You'd  be  unprejudiced."  The  old  woman 
had  never  seemed  quite  so  imperious  before. 

"I  have  here  a  paper  describing  it.  York  Mac 
pherson  sent  it  to  Uncle  Cornelius  the  very  week 
he  died.  I  found  it  among  some  other  papers 
shortly  after  his  death  and  after  Jerry  left.  When 
York  was  here  he  confirmed  the  report  at  my  in 
sistent  request.  Read  it." 

Jerusha  Darby  read,  realizing,  as  she  did  so, 
that  neither  her  husband  nor  York  Macpherson 
had  succeeded  in  doing  what  Eugene  Wellington 
had  done  easily.  Each  had  tried  in  vain  to  have 
her  read  that  paper. 

"  You  knew  the  condition  of  this  estate  for  three 
years,  and  never  told  me.  Why?"  The  old  wom 
an's  face  was  very  pale. 

"I  did  not  dare  to  do  so,"  Eugene  replied,  that 
line  of  weakness  in  his  face  which  Jerry  had  noted 
three  years  before  revealing  itself  for  the  first  time 
to  her  aunt. 

"This  is  sufficient,"  she  said,  in  a  quiet  sort  of 
way.  "To-morrow  I  make  my  will — just  to  be 

315 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

sure.  I  shall  probably  outlive  many  younger 
people  than  myself.  Write  and  tell  Jerry  I  have 
done  it.  This  time  to-morrow  night  will  see  my 
estate  settled  so  far  as  the  next  generation  is 
concerned.  If  I  do  not  do  it,  Eugene,  some  dis 
tant  and  improvident  relatives  of  Cornelius  will 
claim  it.  Send  the  lawyer  out  in  the  morning." 

"All  right,  Aunt  Jerry.  I  must  go  now.  I  have 
a  club  meeting  in  the  city  and  I  can  make  it  easily. 
The  car  runs  like  the  wind  with  Henderson  at 
the  wheel.  Good-by." 

And  Eugene  Wellington  was  gone. 

"Three  years  ago  I'd  have  left  everything  to 
him  if  I  had  been  ready  to  make  a  will  then.  I'm 
ready  now,  and  any  time  in  the  next  ten  years  I 
can  change  it  if  I  want  to.  But  this  will  bring 
things  my  way,  after  all.  I  told  York  I'd  never 
forgive  Jerry!" 

Mrs.  Darby  paused,  and  a  smile  lighted  her 
wrinkled  face. 

"To  think  of  that  girl  just  shouldering  her  bur 
den  and  walking  off  with  it.  If  she  isn't  Brother 
Jim  over  again!  Never  writing  a  word  of  com 
plaint.  Oh,  Jerry!  Jerry!  I'll  make  it  up  to  you 
to-morrow." 

To  Jerusha  Darby  money  made  up  for  every 
thing.  She  sat  long  in  the  rose-arbor,  thinking, 
maybe,  of  the  years  when  Jerry's  children  and  her 
children's  children  would  dominate  the  Winnowoc 
countryside  as  they  of  the  Swaim  blood  had  always 

316 


A    POSTLUDE    IN    "EDEN*1 

done.  And  then,  because  she  was  tired,  and  the 
afternoon  sunshine  was  warm,  and  her  willow  rock 
ing-chair  was  very  comfortable — she  fell  asleep. 

"Went  just  like  her  brother,  the  late  Jeremiah 
Swaim,"  the  papers  said,  the  next  evening. 

Instead  of  the  lawyer,  it  was  the  undertaker 
who  came  to  officiate.  And  the  last  will  and  tes 
tament,  and  the  too -late  evidence  of  a  forgiv 
ing  good- will,  all  were  impossible  henceforth  and 
forever. 

The  estate  of  the  late  Jerusha  Darby,  relict  of 
the  late  Cornelius  Darby,  no  will  of  hers  having 
been  found,  passed,  by  agreement  under  law, 
to  a  distant  relative  of  the  late  Cornelius,  which 
relative  being  Eugene  Wellington,  whose  knowl 
edge  of  the  said  possible  conditions  of  inheritance 
he  had  held  in  his  possession  for  three  years,  since 
the  day  he  accidentally  found  them  among  the 
private  papers  of  his  late  uncle,  knowing  the  while 
that  any  sudden  notion  of  the  late  Jerusha  might 
result  in  putting  her  possessions,  by  her  own  sig 
nature,  where  neither  Jerry,  as  her  favorite  and 
heir  apparent,  nor  himself,  as  heir-in-law  without 
a  will,  could  inherit  anything.  Truly  Gene  had 
had  a  bothersome  time  of  it  for  three  years,  and 
he  congratulated  himself  on  having  done  well — 
excellently  well,  indeed.  Truly  only  the  good 
little  snakes  ever  entered  that  "  Eden "  in  the 
Winnowoc  Valley  in  Pennsylvania. 

317 


XVII 

THE  FLESH-POTS  OF  THE  WINNOWOC 


glory  of  that  third  springtime  was  on  the 
Kansas  prairies  and  in  the  heart  of  a  man  and 
a  maid,  the  best  of  good  fellows  each  to  the  other, 
who  rode  together  far  along  their  blossomy  trails. 
The  eyes  of  the  man  were  on  the  future  and  in  his 
heart  there  was  only  one  wish  —  that  the  good- 
fellowship  would  soon  end  in  the  realization  of  his 
heart's  desire.  The  eyes  of  the  maid  were  closed 
to  the  future.  For  her,  too,  there  was  only  one 
wish  —  that  this  kind  of  comradeship  might  go  on 
unchanged  indefinitely.  To  Jerry  no  trouble 
seemed  quite  so  big  when  Joe  was  with  her,  and 
little  foxes  sought  their  holes  when  he  came  near. 
If  the  spring  work  had  not  grown  so  heavy  late 
in  May,  and  Joe  could  have  come  to  town  oftener, 
and  one  teacher  had  not  fallen  sick,  and  Clare 
Lenwell  hadn't  been  so  stubborn,  and  if  Stellar 
Bahrr  had  held  her  tongue  —  But  why  go  on 
with  ifs?  All  these  conditions  did  exist.  What 
might  have  been  without  them  no  man  knoweth. 
One  of  the  humanest  traits  of  human  beings  is 

318 


FLESH-POTS   OF   THE    WINNOWOC  - 

to  believe  what  is  pleasant  to  believe,  and  to  doubt 
and  question  what  would  be  an  undesirable  fact. 
Jerry  Swaim,  clinging  ever  to  a  memory  of  what 
might  have  been,  building  a  pretty  love  dream, 
it  is  true,  to  be  acted  out  some  far-away  time  by  a 
young  farmer  and  his  neighbor  in  the  Sage  Brush 
Valley,  listened  to  Stellar  Bahrr's  version  of 
Thelma  Ekblad's  shopping  mission,  held  back  the 
tears  that  burned  her  eyeballs  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  being  human,  voted  the  whole  thing  as  im 
possible,  if  not  as  malicious  as  any  of  Stellar 
Bahrr's  stories.  Indeed,  Thelma  Ekblad  was  now, 
as  she  had  always  been,  the  very  least  of  Jerry's 
troubles. 

The  school  row,  that  had  become  the  community 
fuss,  culminated  in  the  superintendent  putting 
upon  his  teachers  the  responsibility  of  settlement. 

If  they  were  willing  to  concede  to  the  foolish 
demands  of  the  class,  led  by  Clare  Lenwell,  and 
grant  full  credits  in  their  branches  of  study,  he 
would  abide  by  their  decision.  The  easiest  way, 
after  all,  to  quiet  the  thing,  he  said,  might  be  to 
let  the  young  folks  have  their  way  this  time,  and 
do  better  with  the  class  next  year.  They  could 
begin  in  time  with  them.  As  if  Solomon  himself 
could  ever  foresee  what  trivial  demand  and  stub 
born  claim  will  be  the  author  and  finisher  of  the 
disturbance  from  year  to  year  in  the  town's  pride 
and  glory — the  high-school  Senior  class,  and  its 
Commencement  affairs.  The  final  vote  to  break 

319 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

the  tie  and  make  the  verdict  was  purposely  put 
on  Jerry  Swaim,  who  had  more  influence  in  the 
high  school  than  the  superintendent  himself. 
Jerry  protested,  and  asked  for  a  more  just  agree 
ment,  finally  spending  a  whole  afternoon  with 
Clare  Lenwell  in  an  effort  to  induce  him  to  be  a 
gentleman,  offering,  in  return,  all  fairness  and 
courtesy. 

Young  Lenwell's  head  was  now  too  large  for  his 
body.  He  was  the  hero  of  the  hour.  Rule  or 
ruin  rested  on  this  young  Napoleon  of  the  Sage 
Brush,  divinely  ordained  to  free  the  downtrodden 
youths  of  America  from  the  iron  heel  and  galling 
chains  with  which  the  faculty  of  the  average  Amer 
ican  high  school  enthralls  and  degrades — and  so 
forth,  world  without  end. 

This  at  least  was  Clare  Lenwell's  attitude  from 
one  o'clock  P.M.  to  five  o'clock  P.M.  of  an  unusually 
hot  June  day.  At  the  stroke  of  five  Jerry  rose, 
with  calm  face,  but  a  dangerously  square  chin, 
saying,  in  an  untroubled  tone: 

"You  may  as  well  go.    Good  afternoon." 

Young  Lenwell  walked  out,  the  cock  of  the  hour 
— until  the  next  morning.  Then  all  of  the  Seniors 
were  recorded  as  having  received  full  credits  for 
graduation  from  all  of  the  faculty — except  one 
pupil,  who  lacked  one  teacher's  signature.  Clare 
Lenwell  was  held  back  by  Miss  Swaim,  teacher  of 
the  mathematics  department. 

The  earthquake  followed. 

320 


FLESH-POTS   OF   THE    WINNOWOC 

In  the  session  of  the  school  board  on  the  after 
noon  of  Commencement  Day  Junius  Brutus  Ponk, 
who  presided  over  the  meeting,  sat  "as  firm  as 
Mount  Olympus,  or  Montpelier,  Vermont,"  he 
said,  afterward;  "the  uncle  Lenwell  suffered  erup 
tion,  Vesuviously;  and  the  third  man  of  us  just 
cowed  down,  and  shriveled  up,  and  tried  to  slip 
out  in  the  hole  where  the  electric-light  wire 
comes  through  the  wall.  But  I  fetched  him  back 
with  a  button-hook,  knowin'  he'd  get  lost  in  that 
wide  passageway  and  his  remains  never  be  recov 
ered  to  his  family." 

It  was  not,  however,  just  a  family  matter  now 
among  the  Lenwells.  In  the  presence  of  the  super 
intendent  and  Mrs.  Bahrr,  Miss  Swaim  was  called 
to  trial  by  her  peers — the  board  of  education.  In 
this  executive  session,  whose  proceedings  were  not 
ever  to  be  breathed — for  York  Macpherson  would 
have  the  last  man  of  them  put  in  jail,  he  was  that 
influential — Other  Things  Were  Made  Known — 
Things  that,  after  the  final  settlement,  became  in 
time  common  property,  and  so  forgotten. 

Herein  Stellar  Bahrr's  three  years  of  pent-up 
anger  at  last  found  vent.  She  had  been  preparing 
for  this  event.  She  had  adroitly  set  the  trap  for 
the  first  difficulty,  that  had  its  start  in  the  Lenwell 
family,  while  she  was  doing  their  spring  sewing. 
Incessantly  and  insidiously  she  laid  her  mines  and 
strung  her  wires  and  stored  her  munitions,  deter 
mined  to  settle  once  for  all  with  the  pretty, 

321 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

stuck-up  girl  who  had  held  a  whip  over  her  for 
three  whole  years. 

Charges  were  to  be  brought  against  Miss  Swaim 
of  a  serious  character,  and  she  was  to  be  tried  and 
condemned  in  secret  session  and  allowed  to  leave 
the  town  quietly.  Nothing  would  be  said  aloud 
until  she  was  gone. 

In  despair,  Ponk  sought  York  Macpherson  two 
hours  before  the  trial  began. 

"There's  two  against  me.  And  no  matter  what 
I  say,  they'll  outvote  me.  It's  the  durned  infernal 
ballot-box  that's  a  curse  to  a  free  government. 
If  it  wasn't  for  that,  republics  would  flourish. 
Bern*  an  uncrowned  king  don't  keep  a  man  from 
bein*  a  plain  short-eared  jackass — and  they's  three 
of  us  of  the  same  breed — two  against  one." 

York's  face  was  gray  with  anger,  and  he  clutched 
his  fingers  in  his  wavy  hair  as  if  to  get  back  the 
hold  on  himself. 

"You  will  have  your  trial,  of  course.  Demand 
two  things — that  the  accused  and  the  accusers 
meet  face  to  face.  It  will  be  hard  on  Jerry." 

"Has  she  flinched  or  fell  down  once  in  three 
years,  York  Macpherson?  Ain't  she  stronger  and 
handsomer  to-day  than  she  was  the  day  I  had  the 
honor  to  bring  her  up  from  the  depot  in  that  new 
gadabout  of  mine?  If  I  could  I'd  have  had  it 
framed  and  hung  on  the  wall  and  kept,  for  what 
it  done  for  her." 

The  two  men  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  and 

322 


FLESH-POTS   OF   THE   WINNOWOC 

what  each  read  there  made  a  sacred,  unbreakable 
bond  between  them  for  all  the  years  to  come. 

The  trial  was  held  in  the  hotel  parlor,  behind 
closed  doors.  The  charges  were  vague  and  poorly 
supported  by  evidence,  but  the  venom  back  of 
them  was  definite.  Plainly  stated,  a  pretty,  in 
competent  girl  had  come  West  for  some  reason 
never  made  clear  to  New  Eden.  Come  as  an 
heiress  in  "style  and  stuckuppitude  of  manner" 
(that  was  Stellar  Bahrr's  phrasing) ;  had  suddenly 
become  poor  and  dependent  on  the  good-will  of 
J.  B.  Ponk,  who  had  fought  to  the  bitter  end  to 
give  her  "a  place  on  the  town  pay-roll  and  keep 
her  there"  (that  was  the  jealous  superintendent's 
phrasing);  and  on  the  patronage  of  York  Mac- 
pherson,  who  had  really  took  her  in,  he  and  his 
honorable  sistjer,  even  if  they  really  were  the  worse 
"took  in"  of  the  two.  At  this  point  Ponk  rapped 
for  a  better  expression  of  terms.  The  young  per 
son  had  tried  to  "run  things"  in  the  church  and 
schools  and  society.  Even  the  superintendent 
himself  had  to  be  sure  of  her  approval  before  he 
dared  to  start  any  movement  in  the  high  school. 
And  no  one  of  the  preachers  would  invite  her  to 
unite  with  his  church. 

But  to  the  charges  now: 

First:  She  had  refused  to  let  Clare  Lenwell 
graduate  who  wasn't  any  worse  than  the  rest  of 
the  class. 

Secondly:  She  had  a  way  of  riding  around  over 

323 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

the  country  with  young  men  on  moonlight  nights 
on  horseback.  Of  going,  the  Lord  knows  where, 
with  young  men,  joy-riding  in  cars,  or  of  going 
alone  wherever  she  pleased  in  hired  livery  cars. 
And  some  thought  she  met  strange  men  and  was 
acquainted  with  rough  characters,  and  the  moral 
influence  of  that  was  awfully  bad;  and  there  was 
something  even  worse,  if  that  were  possible, 
WORSE! 

Things  had  disappeared  around  town  often, 
but  in  the  last  three  years  especially.  If  folks  were 
poor,  they  needed  money. 

Then  Stellar  Bahrr  came  into  the  ring. 

Jerry  had  sat  and  listened  to  the  proceedings  as 
an  indifferent  spectator  to  what  could  in  no  wise 
concern  her.  With  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Bahrr 
to  the  witness-stand,  the  girl's  big,  dreamy  eyes 
grew  brighter  and  her  firm  mouth  was  set,  but  no 
mark  of  anxiety  showed  itself  in  her  face  or  manner. 

Mrs.  Bahrr  whined  a  bit  as  to  wishing  only  to 
do  the  right  thing,  but  her  steel-pointed  eyes,  as 
she  fixed  them  in  Jerry,  wrote  as  with  a  stylus 
across  the  girl's  understanding: 

"You  are  hopelessly  in  the  minority.  Now  I 
can  say  what  I  please." 

What  Mrs.  Bahrr  really  knew,  of  course,  she 
couldn't  swear  to  in  any  court,  because  of  Laura 
and  York  Macpherson.  She  wouldn't  shame  them, 
because  they  had  befriended  a  fraud,  all  with  good 
intentions.  She  only  came  now  because  she'd  been 

324 


FLESH-POTS   OF   THE    WINNOWOC 

promised  protection  by  the  board  from  what  folks 
would  say,  and  she  was  speaking  what  must 
never  be  repeated. 

"Most  of  us  need  that  kind  of  protection  when 
you  are  around,"  Ponk  declared,  vehemently, 
knowing  that,  while  the  school  board  would  keep 
her  words  sacred,  nothing  said  or  done  in  that 
trial  would  be  held  sacred  by  her  as  soon  as  the 
decision  she  wished  for  was  reached. 

Stellar,  feeling  herself  safe,  paid  no  heed  to 
Ponk.  What  she  really  knew  was  that  a  certain 
young  lady  had  been  known  to  take  money  from 
her  hostess  and,  being  caught,  had  been  forced  to 
give  it  up.  Stellar  herself  saw  and  heard  the  whole 
thing  when  it  happened.  Laura  had  told  her 
about  the  matter,  and  then,  when  she  was  just 
leaving,  Jerry  had  returned  the  money.  She  was 
right  outside  of  the  vines  on  the  porch,  and  she 
knew.  Stellar  knew  that  dollars  and  dollars, 
jewelry,  silverware,  and  other  valuables  had  been 
taken,  and  some  of  them  never  restored;  but  some 
was  sneaked  back  when  the  pressure  got  too  strong. 
In  a  word,  through  much  talk  and  little  sense, 
Miss  Geraldine  Swaim  was  branded  a  high-toned 
thief.  And  worse  than  that.  For  three  years 
strange  men  had  slipped  to  the  Macpherson  home 
when  the  folks  were  away,  and  been  let  out  by 
the  side  door.  Real  low-down-looking  fellows. 
Stellar  had  seen  them  herself.  She  had  a  way  of 
running  'cross  lots  up  to  Laury's  evenings,  and 

325 


THE   RECLAIMERS 

she  knew  what  she  was  talking  about.  Stellar 
dropped  her  eyes  now,  not  caring  to  look  at 
Jerry.  Her  blow  had  hit  home  and  she  was 
exultant. 

"Has  the  young  lady  anything  to  say?"  Len- 
well  of  the  school  board  asked,  feeling  a  twinge 
of  pity,  after  all,  because  the  case  was  even 
stronger  than  he  had  hoped  it  could  be  made. 

Jerry  looked  over  at  Stellar  Bahrr  until  she  was 
forced  to  lift  her  eyes  to  the  girl's  face. 

"I  cannot  understand  the  degree  of  hate  that 
can  be  developed  in  a  human  mind,"  she  said, 
calmly.  "That  is  all  I  have  to  say." 

Junius  Brutus  Ponk's  round  face  seemed  to 
blacken  like  a  Kansas  sky  before  the  coming  of  a 
hail-storm.  Lenwell  gave  a  snort  of  triumph,  and 
the  third  member  of  the  board  grinned. 

At  that  moment  the  door  of  the  hotel  parlor 
opened.  Jerry,  who  sat  opposite  to  it,  caught 
sight  of  York  Macpherson  in  the  hall.  And 
York  saw  her,  calm  and  brave,  in  what  he  read, 
in  the  instant,  was  defeat  for  her.  Before  her 
were  dismissal,  failure,  and  homelessness.  But 
neither  he  nor  any  one  else  dreamed  how  far  the 
influence  of  those  Sunday  afternoons  of  "calling 
on  mother,'*  with  the  fat  little  hotel-keeper,  had 
led  this  girl  into  a  "trust  in  every  tune  of  trouble," 
and  she  faced  her  future  bravely. 

It  was  not  York  Macpherson,  but  the  little, 
fuzzy,  shabby  figure  of  old  Fishin*  Teddy  who 

326 


FLESH-POTS    OF   THE    WINNOWOC 

shuffled  inside  and  closed  the  door,  demanding  in 
a  quavering  squeak  to  be  heard. 

Ponk  gave  a  start  of  surprise;  Lenwell  was  an 
noyed;  the  third  man  was  indifferent  now,  being 
safe,  anyhow.  Stellar  Bahrr  and  the  superinten 
dent  stared  in  amazement,  but  Jerry's  face  was 
wonderful  to  see. 

"  'Ain't  I  got  a  right  to  say  a  word  here,  gentle 
men?"  old  Teddy  asked,  looking  at  Ponk. 

"If  it's  on  the  subject  of  this  meeting,  yes.  If 
it's  anything  about  fish,  either  in  the  Sage  Brush 
or  in  Kingussie  Creek,  no.  This  really  ain't  no 
place  for  fish  stories.  We're  overstocked  with  'em 
right  now,  till  this  hotel  and  gurrage  will  have  a 
'ancient  and  a  fishlike  smell*  as  the  Good  Book 
says,  for  a  generation." 

"I  just  got  wind  of  what  was  on  up  here.  A 
man  from  your  town  come  down  to  see  me  on 
business,  an'  he  bringed  me  up." 

"York  Macpherson's  the  only  man  I  ever  knew 
had  business  with  old  Teddy.  Lord  be  praised!" 
Ponk  thought. 

"I  got  a  little  testimony  myself  to  offer  here,  for 
the  one  that's  bein'  blackmailed.  I'll  tell  it  fast 
as  I  can,"  Teddy  declared. 

"Take  your  time  an'  get  it  straight.  None  of 
us  is  in  a  hurry  now,"  Ponk  assured  him. 

Then  the  Teddy  Bear,  without  looking  at  Jerry, 
gave  testimony: 

"Back  in  Pennsylvany,  where  I  come  from,  in 

327 


the  Winnowoc  country,  I  knowed  Jim  Swaim,  this 
young  lady's  father.  I  wasn't  no  fisherman  then. 
I  was  a  hard-workin',  well-meanin',  honest  man. 
My  name  was  Hans  Theodore — and  somethin' 
else  I  have  no  use  for  since  I  come  to  the  Sage 
Brush  in  Kansas." 

He  hesitated  and  looked  down  at  his  scaly 
brown  paws  and  shabby  clothes. 

"I  ain't  telling  this  'cause  I  want  to,  but  'cause 
I  want  to  do  justice  to  Jim  Swaim's  girl.  Jim  was 
my  friend  an'  helped  me  a  lot  of  ways.  He  was  a 
hard-fisted  business  man,  but  awfully  human  with 
human  bein's;  an*  his  daughter's  jes'  like  him, 
seems  to  me." 

Jerry's  cheeks  were  swept  with  the  bloom  of 
"Eden"  roses  as  she  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  old  man.  To  her  in  that  moment  came  a 
vision  of  Uncle  Cornie  in  the  rose-arbor  when  the 
colorless  old  man  had  pleaded  with  her  to  become 
as  her  father  had  been. 

"I  got  into  trouble  back  there.  This  is  a  secret 
session,  hain't  it?"  The  old  man  hesitated  again. 

"Yes,  dead  secret,"  Ponk  assured  him.  "Noth- 
in*  told  outside  of  here  before  it's  first  told  inside, 
which  is  unusual  in  such  secret  proceedings,  so  you 
are  among  friends.  Go  on." 

Stellar  Bahrr  sat  with  her  eyes  piercing  the  old 
man  like  daggers,  while  his  own  faded  yellow- 
brown  eyes  drooped  with  a  sorrowful  expression. 

"I  won't  say  how  it  happened,  but  I  got  mixed 


FLESH-POTS    OF   THE    WINNOWOC 

up  in  some  stealin*  scrape — that's  why  I  changed 
my  name  or,  ruther,  left  off  the  last  of  it.  I'd  gone 
to  the  Pen — though  ever'  scrap  I  ever  stole,  or  its 
money  value,  was  actually  returned  to  them  that 
had  lost  it.  Jim  Swaim  stood  by  me,  helpin*  me 
through,  an*  I  paid  him  as  I  earnt  it.  Then  he 
give  me  money  to  get  started  here,  an*  befriended 
me  every  way,  just  'cause  it  was  in  him.  I've 
lived  out  here  on  the  Sage  Brush  alone  'cause  I 
ain't  fit  to  live  with  folks.  But  when  the  old 
mainy,  as  you  say  of  crazy  folk,  comes,  why,  things 
is  missin'  up  in  town.  They  land  in  my  shack 
sometimes,  an*  sometimes  I'm  honest  enough  to 
bring  'em  back  when  I  can  do  it.  I'm  the  one 
that  hangs  around  in  the  shadders,  an*  if  you 
ketch  sight  of  strange  men  at  side  doors,  Mrs. 
Bahrr,  it's  me.  An'  when  this  Jerry  Swaim  (I 
knowed  her  when  she  was  a  baby;  I  carried  her 
in  my  arms  'cross  the  Winnowoc  once,  time  of  a 
big  flood  up  in  Pennsylvany) — when  her  purseful 
of  money  was  stole,  three  years  ago,  an*  she 
comes  down  to  my  shack  and  finds  it  all  there, 
why,  she  done  by  me  then  jus'  like  her  own 
daddy  'd  'a'  done,  she  never  told  on  me  at  all. 
An'  she  hain't  told  all  these  years,  and  wa'n't 
goin'  to  tell  on  me  now.  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean  'bout  these  stories  on  her.  She  never  done 
nothin'  to  be  ashamed  of  in  her  life.  'Tain't 
in  her  family  to  be  ashamed.  They  dunno  how. 
If  they's  blame  for  stealin'  in  New  Eden,  though, 

22  329 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

jus'  lay  it  on  old  Fishin'  Teddy.  You  'quit  her 
now." 

The  old  man's  voice  quavered  as  he  squeaked 
out  his  words,  and  he  shuffled  aside,  to  be  less  in 
evidence  in  the  parlor,  where  he  had  for  the  one 
time  in  his  life  been  briefly  the  central  figure. 

The  silence  that  followed  his  words  was  broken 
by  Jerry's  clear,  low  voice.  Her  face  was  beautiful 
in  the  soft  light  there.  To  Ponk  she  had  never 
seemed  so  adorable  before,  not  even  on  still  Sab 
bath  afternoons  in  the  quiet  corner  of  the  ceme 
tery  where  they  talked  as  friends  of  mother-love 
and  God,  and  Life  after  life. 

"Friends,  this  old  hermit  fisherman  is  telling  you 
a  falsehood  to  try  to  shield  me  because  of  some 
favor  my  father  showed  him  in  the  years  gone  by. 
If  he  is  not  willing  to  say  more,  to  tell  you  the 
real  truth,  he  will  force  me  to  say  to  you  that  I 
am  the  guilty  one  after  all.  I  cannot  let  him 
make  such  a  sacrifice  for  me." 

She  spoke  as  though  she  were  explaining  the 
necessity  for  changing  cars  in  Chicago  in  order  to 
reach  Montreal.  Old  Fishin'  Teddy  lifted  his 
clubby  brown  hands  in  protest. 

"'Tain't  so,  an'  'tain't  right,"  he  managed  to 
make  the  words  come  out — thin  and  trembling 
words,  shaking  like  palsied  things. 

"No,  it  isn't  so,  and  it  isn't  right,  and  he  must 
not  bear  a  disgrace  he  doesn't  deserve.  I'll  do 
it  for  him,"  Jerry  said,  smiling  upon  the  shabby 

330 


FLESH-POTS    OF    THE    WINNOWOC 

old  man — a  common  grub  of  the  Sage  Brush 
Valley. 

There  is  nothing  grander  in  human  history, 
nothing  which  can  more  deeply  touch  the  common 
human  heart  of  us  all,  than  the  lesson  of  self- 
sacrifice  taught  on  Mount  Calvary.  From  the 
thief  on  the  cross,  down  through  all  the  centuries, 
has  the  blessed  power  of  that  Spirit  softened  the 
hearts  of  evil-doers,  great  or  small.  Jerry  had  not 
once  turned  toward  Stellar  Bahrr  since  the  en 
trance  of  Fishin'  Teddy.  When  she  had  ceased 
speaking,  the  silence  of  the  room  was  broken  by 
the  town  busybody's  whining  tone: 

"They  ain't  neither  one  of  'em  a  thief,  Mr. 
Ponk.  It's  me.  They  sha'n't  do  no  such  sacri 
ficing  thing." 

The  silence  of  the  moment  before  was  a  shout 
compared  to  the  dead  silence  now. 

"Yes,  it's  me.  I  was  born  that  way,  an*  it 
just  seems  I  can't  help  it.  I've  done  all  the  liftin', 
I  guess,  that's  been  done  in  this  town  a'most — 
'tain't  so  much,  of  course;  but  I  ain't  mean  clear 
through,  an'  I  jus*  wouldn't  ever  rest  in  my  grave 
if  I  don't  speak  now.  I  thought  I'd  always  hide 
it,  but  I  know  I  never  will." 

Old  Teddy  shrank  back  in  a  heap  on  his  chair, 
while  all  of  the  rest  except  Jerry  Swaim  sat  as  if 
thunderstruck. 

"I'm  goin'  clear  through  with  it,  now  I've 
begun.  Maybe  I'll  be  a  better  woman  if  I  am 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

disgraced  forever  by  it."  Mrs.  Bahrr's'  voice  grew 
steadier  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground. 

"Hans  Theodore — the  last  part  of  his  name  is 
Bahrr — he's  my  husband.  It  was  for  my  sins  that 
he  left  Pennsylvany.  Jim  Swaim  saved  us  from 
a  lot  of  disgrace,  and  persuaded  us  to  come  West 
an*  start  over,  an*  helped  us  a  lot.  I  couldn't 
break  myself  of  wrong-doing  just  by  changing 
climate,  though.  We  tried  Indiany  first  an'  failed, 
then  we  come  to  S'liny,  Kansas,  next  an'  then 
we  come  on  here.  An'  at  last  Theodore  give  me 
up  an'  went  off  alone  an'  changed  his  name.  Mr. 
Lenwell's  folks  here  is  distant  relatives,  but  they 
never  would  'a'  knowed  Theodore.  Didn't  know 
he'd  never  got  a  divorce,  and  never  stop  supportin' 
me;  like  he'd  said  when  we  was  married,  he'd 
'keep  me  unto  death,'  you  know;  and  he'd  come 
to  see  me  once  in  a  while,  to  be  sure  I  wasn't 
needin'  nothin'.  I  jus'  worked  along  at  one  thing 
or  another,  an*  Teddy  earnt  money  an'  paid  it 
in  to  York  Macpherson,  like  a  pension,  an*  he 
paid  me,  York  did.  But  Teddy  wouldn't  never 
live  with  me,  though  he  never  told  York  why. 
An'  when  I  took  things — 

Mrs.  Bahrr  paused  and  looked  at  Jerry  depre- 
catingly. 

"Like  that  silver  cup  I  saw  down  at  the  deep 
hole?"  Jerry  "asked,  encouragingly. 

"Yes,  like  that.  I  seen  you  down  there  that 
day.  I  was  the  woman  that  passed  your  car — 

332 


FLESH-POTS    OF   THE    WINNOWOC 

"I  know  it,"  Jerry  said,  "I  remember  your  sun- 
bonnet  and  gray-green  dress.  I've  often  seen  both 
since.'* 

"Yes,  an*  you  remember,  too,  the  time  I  come 
out  on  the  porch  sudden  when  you  first  come 
here,  an'  made  you  promise  not  to  tell."  Mrs. 
Bahrr's  voice  quavered  now. 

"An*  'cause  I  knowed  Teddy  'd  bring  that  right 
back  to  Macpherson's  and  you'd  remember  it,  an* 
'cause  you  were  Jim  Swaim's  child  that  knowed 
my  fault  an'  made  me  do  what  I  didn't  want  to 
do,  even  if  I  was  in  the  wrong,  I  hated  you  an* 
vowed  to  myself  I'd  fix  you.  It  was  me  slipped 
into  your  room  an'  stuck  Laury's  purse  into  your 
beaded  hand-bag,  an'  it  was  me  took  your  roll 
of  money  from  your  own  purse.  Teddy  took  it 
away,  though,  that  very  night.  Teddy  he'd  take 
whatever  I  picked  up  an'  pretend  he'd  sell  it, 
but  he'd  git  it  back  to  'em  some  way  if  he  could; 
an'  he's  saved  an'  sold  fish  an'  lived  a  hermit 
life  an'  never  told  on  me.  He's  slipped  up  to  town 
to  git  me  to  put  back  or  let  him  put  back  what 
I  was  tempted  to  pilfer,  'cause  it  seemed  I  just 
couldn't  help  it.  York's  been  awful  patient  with 
me.  too.  But  I  can't  set  here  an'  be  a  woman 
and  see  Teddy  shieldin'  me,  a  hypocrite,  an'  her 
shieldin'  him,  an'  not  tellin'  on  me,  like  wimmen 
does  on  wimmen  generally,  an'  not  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it.  An'  if  you'll  not  tell  on  me,  an'  all 
help  me,  I'll  jus'  try  once  more — " 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"Won't  anything  go  out  of  this  room  except 
what  you  tell  yourself,  Stellar  Bahrr,"  Ponk  said, 
gravely.  "Now  you  go  home  an*  begin  to  act 
better  and  think  better,  an'  this  '11  be  a  heap  cleaner 
town  forever  after.  An'  if  you  live  right  the  rest 
of  your  days  you  '11  keep  on  livin'  after  you're 
dead,  like  mother  does.  The  charges  of  this  case  is 
all  settled.  I  congratulate  you,  Miss  Fair  Defend 
ant.  You  are  a  Joan  of  Arc,  an'  a  Hannah  Dustin, 
an  Boaz's  Ruth,  an'  Barbara  Fritchie,  all  in  one." 

While  the  other  two  members  of  the  board  were 
shamefacedly  shaking  hands  and  offering  Jerry 
half  of  New  Eden  as  a  recompense,  old  Fishin' 
Teddy  slipped  out  of  the  side  door  through  the 
dining-room  and  on  to  where  Ponk's  best  livery 
car  waited  to  take  him  to  his  rude  shack  beside 
the  deep  hole  in  the  Sage  Brush. 

As  Jerry  passed  into  the  hall  she  found  a  crowd 
waiting  for  her — the  three  ministers  from  the 
churches,  the  mayor  of  New  Eden^  the  friends  of 
the  Macphersons,  York  himself,  and  many  more  of 
the  town's  best,  who  had  gathered  to  congratulate 
Jerry  and  to  assure  her  of  their  pride  in  her  ability 
and  appreciation  of  her  as  a  citizen  of  New  Eden. 

With  the  Commencement  that  night  the  school 
fuss  and  town  split  disappeared  at  one  breath  and 
passed  into  history. 

When  they  reached  the  doorway  of  "  Castle 
Cluny,"  after  the  Commencement  exercises,  York 

handed  Jerry  a  letter.    It  was  a  long  and  affec- 

334 


FLESH-POTS    OF   THE    WINNOWOC 

tionately  worded  message  from  Eugene  Welling 
ton,  telling  of  the  passing  of  Jerusha  Darby,  of  his 
inheritance,  and  of  his  intention  to  come  at  once 
to  Kansas  and  take  her  back  to  the  "Eden"  she 
had  neglected  so  long. 

And  Jerry,  worn  with  the  events  of  the  last  few 
weeks,  feeling  the  strain  suddenly  lifted,  welcomed 
the  letter  and  shed  a  tear  upon  it,  saying,  softly: 

"Oh,  I'm  so  tired  of  everything  now!  If  he 
comes  for  me,  he'll  find  me  ready  to  meet  him. 
The  flesh-pots  of  the  Winnowoc  are  better  to  me 
than  this  weary  desert." 

Came  an  evening  three  days  before  the  date  for 
the  lease  on  the  Swaim  land  to  expire.  Jerry  sat 
alone  on  the  Macpherson  porch.  It  had  been  an 
extremely  hot  day  for  June,  with  the  dead,  taste 
less  air  that  presages  the  coming  of  a  storm,  and 
to-night  the  moon  seemed  to  struggle  up  toward 
the  zenith  against  choking  gray  clouds  that  threat 
ened  to  smother  out  its  light. 

Jerry  was  not  happy  to-night.  She  wanted  Joe 
Thomson  to  come  this  evening.  It  had  been  such 
a  long  while  since  he  had  had  time  to  leave  the 
ranch  for  an  evening  with  her. 

And  with  the  wishing  Joe  came.  With  firm 
step  and  the  face  of  a  victor  he  came.  From  his 
dark  eyes  hope  and  tenderness  were  looking  out. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  for  ages,  and  ages  are  aw 
fully  long,  you  know,"  Jerry  declared. 

sss 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"I've  been  very  busy,"  Joe  replied.  "You 
know  you  can't  break  the  laws  of  the  ranch  and 
expect  a  harvest,  any  more  than  you  can  break 
the  laws  of  geometry  and  depend  on  results.  I 
would  have  been  up  sooner,  though,  but  for  one 
thing:  a  fellow  on  the  ranch  above  mine  who  got 
hurt  once  with  a  mowing-machine  had  another 
accident  and  I've  been  helping  the  owner,  that 
stout-hearted  little  Norwegian  girl,  Thelma  Ek- 
blad,  to  take  /care  of^  their  crops,  too.  Thelma 
is  a  courageous  soul  who  has  worked  her  way 
through  the  university,  and  she  is  a  mighty 
capable  girl,  too.  She  would  be  a  splendid  success 
as  a  teacher,  she  is  so  well  trained,  but  her  family 
need  her,  and  all  of  us  down  there  need  her." 

Jerry  caught  her  breath.  It  was  the  first  time 
in  three  years  that  Joe  had  ever  mentioned  any 
girl  with  interest.  But  now  this  was  all  right  and 
just  as  things  should  be.  A  neighbor,  a  capable 
Western  girl — women  see  far,  after  all,  and  Jerry's 
romance  had  not  been  a  foolish  one. 

"That's  all  right,  Joe,  but  I  have  been  wanting 
to  see  you"— the  old  "I  want"  as  imperative 
again  to-night  as  in  the  days  when  all  of  this  girl's 
wants  had  been  met  by  the  mere  expression  of 
them. 

"And  I'm  always  wanting  to  see  you,  and  never 
so  much  as  to-night,"  Joe  began,  earnestly. 

"Let  me  tell  you  first  why  I  have  wanted  to  see 
you  once  more,"  Jerry  broke  in,  hastily. 

336 


FLESH-POTS    OF    THE    WINNOWOC 

In  the  dull  light  her  dreamy  dark-blue  eyes 
and  her  golden  hair  falling  away  from  her  white 
brow  left  an  imprint  that  Joe  Thomson's  mind 
kept  henceforth;  at  the  same  time  that  "once 
more"  cut  a  deeper  wound  than  Jerry  could  know. 

"My  aunt  Jerry  Darby  is  dead."  The  girl's 
voice  was  very  low.  "I  can't  grieve  for  her,  for 
she  was  old  and  tired  of  life  and  unhappy.  You 
remember  I  told  you  about  her  one  night  here 
three  years  ago." 

Joe  did  remember. 

"She  left  all  her  fortune  to  Cousin  Gene  Well 
ington." 

"The  artist  who  turned  out  to  be  a  bank  clerk?" 
Joe  asked.  "I  really  always  doubted  that  story." 

"Yes,  but,  you  know,  he  did  it  to  please  Aunt 
Jerry.  Think  of  a  sacrifice  like  that!  Giving  up 
one's  dearest  life-work!" 

"I'm  thinking  of  it.  Excuse  me.  Go  on,"  Joe  said. 

Jerry  lifted  her  big  dreamy  eyes.  The  sparkle 
was  gone  and  only  the  soft  light  of  romance 
illumined  them  now. 

"Gene  is  coming  out  to  see  me  soon.  I  look  for 
him  any  day.  Everything  is  all  settled  about 
the  property,  and  everything  is  going  to  be  all 
right,  after  all,  I  am  sure.  And  I'm  so  tired  of 
teaching."  Jerry  broke  off  suddenly. 

"But,  oh,  Joe,"  she  began  presently,  "you  will 
never,  never  know  how  much  your  comradeship 
has  helped  me  through  these  three  trying  years  of 

337 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

hard  work  and  hopelessness.  We  have  been  only 
friends,  of  course,  and  you  are  such  a  good,  helpful 
kind  of  a  friend.  I  never  could  have  gotten 
through  without  you." 

"Thank  you,  the  pleasure  is  mine.  I — I  think 
I  must  go  now." 

Joe  rose  suddenly  and  started  to  leave  the 
porch.  In  an  instant  the  very  earth  had  slidden 
out  from  under  his  feet.  The  memory  of  York 
Macpherson's  warning  swept  across  his  mind  as 
the  blowout  sands  sweep  over  the  green  prairie. 
And  he  had  come  to  say  such  different  words  to 
night.  He  had  reached  the  end  of  a  long,  heart 
breaking  warfare  with  nature  and  he  had  won. 
And  now  a  new  warfare  broke  forth  in  his  soul. 

At  that  moment  a  sudden  boom  of  thunder 
crashed  out  of  the  horizon  and  all  the  lightnings 
of  the  heavens  were  unleashed,  while  a  swirling 
dust-deluge  filled  the  darkening  air.  Jerry  sprang 
forward,  clutching  Joe's  arm  with  her  slender 
fingers. 

"The  storm  will  be  here  in  a  minute,"  she  cried. 
"You  must  not  leave  now.  You  mustn't  face 
this  wind.  Look  at  that  awful  black  cloud  and 
see  how  fast  it  is  coming  on.  I  don't  want  you  to 
go  away.  Where  can  you  go?" 

But  Joe  only  shook  off  her  grip,  saying,  hoarsely : 

"I'm  going  down  the  Sage  Brush.  If  you  ever 
want  me  again,  you'll  find  me  beyond  the  blow 
out." 

338 


FLESH-POTS    OF    THE    WINNOWOC 

The  word  struck  like  a  blow.  For  three  years 
Jerry  had  not  heard  it  spoken.  It  was  the  one 
term  forever  dropped  from  her  vocabulary.  All 
who  loved  her  must  forget  its  very  existence. 

There  was  a  sudden  dead  calm  in  the  hot  yellow 
air;  a  moment  of  gathering  forces  before  the  storm 
would  burst  upon  the  town. 

"If  you  ever  see  me  beyond  that  blowout,  you'll 
know  that  I  do  want  you,"  Jerry  said,  slowly. 

In  the  blue  lightning  glare  that  followed,  her 
white  face  and  big  dark  eyes  recalled  to  Joe 
Thomson's  mind  the  moment,  so  long  ago  now,  it 
seemed,  when  Jerry  had  first  looked  out  at  the 
desert  from  under  the  bough  of  the  oak-grove. 

During  the  prolonged,  terrific  burst  of  thunder 
that  followed,  the  young  ranchman  strode  away 
and  the  darkness  swallowed  his  stalwart  form  as 
the  worst  storm  the  Sage  Brush  country  had  ever 
known  broke  furiously  upon  the  whole  valley. 

And  out  on  the  porch  steps  stood  a  girl  con 
scious,  not  of  the  storm-wind,  nor  the  beating  rain, 
nor  cleaving  lightning;  conscious  only  that  some 
thing  had  suddenly  gone  out  of  her  life  into  the 
blackness  whither  Joe  Thomson  had  gone;  and 
with  the  heartache  of  the  loss  of  the  moment 
was  a  strange  resentment  toward  a  brave-hearted 
little  Norwegian  girl  —  a  harvest  -  hand  with  a 
crippled  brother,  an  adopted  baby,  and  a  university 
education. 


XVIII 

THE  LORD  HATH  HIS  WAY  IN  THE  STORM 

TAURA    MACPHERSON    sat    on    the    porch, 

•*— ^  watching  her  brother  coming  slowly  up  the 
street,  seemingly  as  oblivious  to  the  splendor  of 
the  sunset  to-night  as  he  had  been  on  a  June 
evening  three  summers  ago. 

"That  was  the  worst  cloudburst  I  ever  heard  of 
out  here,"  he  declared,  when  he  reached  the 
porch.  "Every  man  in  town  who  could  carry  a 
shovel  has  been  out  all  day,  up-stream  or  down 
stream,  helping  to  dig  out  the  bottomland  farms. 
I've  been  clear  to  the  upper  Sage  Brush,  doing  a 
stunt  or  two  myself.  I  left  my  muddy  boots  and 
overalls  at  the  office  so  that  I  wouldn't  be  smearing 
up  your  old  Castle  here." 

Even  in  the  smallest  things  York's  thoughts 
were  for  his  crippled  sister. 

"There's  a  lot  of  wild  stories  out  about  buildings 
being  swept  away  and  lives  being  lost,  here  and 
there  in  the  valley.  You  needn't  believe  all  of 
them  until  your  trustworthy  brother  confirms 
them  for  you,  little  sister.  Such  events  have 

340 


THE  LORD  HATH  HIS  WAY  IN  THE  STORM 

their  tragedies,  but  the  first  estimate  is  always 
oversize." 

"Even  if  your  Big  Dipper  tells  me,  shall  I  wait 
for  your  confirmation?"  Laura  inquired,  blandly. 

"Oh,  Laura,  I'm  going  to  cut  out  all  that 
astronomical  business  now,  even  if  I  always  did 
know  that  the  right  way  to  pronounce  the  name 
Bahrr  is  plain  Bear,  however  much  you  have  to 
stutter  to  spell  it.  Stellar  has  been,  as  the  Metho 
dists  say,  'redeemed  and  washed  in  the  blood  of 
the  Lamb.'  I'm  taking  her  in  on  probation,  my 
self,  and  if  she  sticks  it  out  for  six  months  I'll  take 
her  into  full  membership." 

"What  do  you  mean,  York?"  Laura  inquired. 

"I  mean  that  since  they  settled  the  school  row 
in  secret  session,  Mrs.  Bahrr  has  been  as  different 
a  woman  as  one  can  be  who  has  let  the  habit  of 
evil  thinking  become  a  taskmaster.  I've  never 
told  you  that  her  husband  is  still  living,  a  shabby 
old  fellow  who  gives  me  money  for  her  support 
as  fast  as  he  can  earn  it,  but  he  won't  live  with  her. 
She  flies  from  hat-trimming  to  sewing  and  baking 
and  nursing  and  back  to  sewing,  and  she  never 
earns  much  anywhere,  and  works  up  trouble  just 
for  pure  cussedness.  But  to-day  she  went  to  the 
upper  Sage  Brush  to  help  old  Mrs.  Poser.  The 
Posers  were  nearly  washed  away,  and  the  old  lady 
is  sick  and  lonely  and  almost  helpless.  She  needs 
somebody  to  stay  with  her.  Yes,  Stellar  is  really 
becoming  a  star — a  plain,  homely  planet,  doing  a 

341 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

good-angel  line  where  she's  most  useful.  We'll  let 
the  past  stay  where  it  belongs,  and  count  her  re 
claimed  to  better  things  now." 

"Amen!  And  what  about  the  valley  down 
stream?  It  must  be  worse,  because  the  storm 
came  up  from  that  way,"  Laura  declared. 

"There  are  plenty  of  rumors,  but  I  haven't 
heard  anything  definite  yet,  for  I  just  got  here,  you 
know,  and,  as  I  telephoned  you,  found  Mr.  Well 
ington  had  registered  at  Ponk's  inn.  The  traveling- 
men  who  were  on  the  branch  line  have  brought 
the  first  word  to  town  to-day.  The  train  is  stuck 
somewhere  down  the  valley,  and  the  tracks,  for 
the  most  part,  are  at  the  bottom  of  the  Sage  Brush. 
There  are  washouts  all  along  the  road-bed,  and  the 
passengers  have  been  hauled  up  the  stream,  across 
fields,  and  every  other  way,  except  by  the  regular 
route.  No  automobile  can  travel  the  trail  now,  so 
our  Philadelphia  gentleman  arrives  a  good  bit 
disgusted  with  this  bloomin'  Western  country, 
don't  you  know;  and  sore  from  miles  of  jolting; 
and  hungry;  and  sort  of  mussy-looking  for  a 
banker;  but  cocksure  of  a  welcome  and  of  the 
power  to  bring  salvation  to  one  of  us  at  least." 

York  dropped  down  on  the  porch  step  with  a 
frown,  flinging  aside  his  hat  and  thrusting  his 
fingers  savagely  into  his  heavy  hair. 

"Oh,  well!"  he  exclaimed,  dejectedly.  "There's 
been  a  three  years'  running  fight  between  Jim 
Swaim's  determined  chin  and  Lesa's  tender  eyes. 

342 


I  had  hoped  to  the  Lord  that  Jim  would  win  the 
day,  but  that  whirlwind  campaign  of  pleading  and 
luxury-tempting  letters  came  just  at  the  end  of  a 
hard  year's  work  in  the  high  school,  with  all  that 
infernal  fuss  in  the  Senior  class,  splitting  the  town 
open  for  a  month  and  being  forgotten  in  an  hour, 
and  the  jealousy  toward  the  best  teacher  we've 
ever  had  here,  etcetera.  So  the  'eyes'  seem  to 
have  it.  If  there  were  no  ladies  present,"  York 
added,  with  a  half -smile,  "I'd  feel  free  to  express 
my  lordly  judgment  of  the  whole  damned  sex." 

"Don't  hesitate,  Yorick;  a  little  cussing  might 
ease  your  liver,"  Laura  declared,  surprised  and 
amused  at  her  brother's  unexpected  vehemence  of 
feeling. 

"There's  nothing  in  the  English  language,  as 
she  is  cussed,  to  do  the  subject  justice,  but  I  might 
practise  a  few  minutes  at  least,"  York  began. 

"Hush,  York!  That  is  Mr.  Eugene  Wellington 
coming  yonder.  I'll  callJerry.  Poor  Joe!"  Laura 
added,  pityingly.  "I  have  a  feeling  he  is  the  real 
sufferer  here." 

"Yes,  poor  Joe!"  York  echoed,  sadly.  "Ponk 
will  just  soar  above  his  hurt,  but  men  of  Joe's 
dogged  make-up  die  a  thousand  deaths  when  they 
do  die." 

Lesa  Swaim's  daughter  was  gloriously  beautiful 
to  Eugene  Wellington's  artistic  eyes  as  he  sat 
beside  her  on  the  porch  on  this  beautiful  evening. 
And  Eugene  himself  held  a  charm  in  his  very 

343 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

presence.  All  the  memories  of  the  young  years 
of  culture  and  ease;  all  the  daintiness  of  perfect 
dress  and  perfect  manners;  all  the  assurance  that 
a  vague,  sweet  dream  was  becoming  real;  all  the 
sense  of  a  struggle  for  a  livelihood  now  ended; 
all  the  breaking  of  the  grip  of  stern  duty,  and  an 
unbending  pride  in  a  clear  conscience,  although 
their  rewards  had  been  inspiringly  sweet — all 
these  seemed  to  Jerry  Swaim  to  lift  her  suddenly 
and  completely  into  the  real  life  from  which  these 
three  busy,  strange  years  had  taken  her.  Oh, 
she  had  been  only  waiting,  after  all.  Nothing 
mattered  any  more.  Eugene  and  she  had  looked 
at  duty  differently.  That  was  all.  He  was  here 
now,  here  for  her  sake.  Henceforth  his  people 
were  to  be  her  people — his  God  her  God.  Uncle 
Cornie  was  wise  when  he  said  of  Eugene:  "He 
comes  nearer  to  what  you've  been  dreaming 
about."  He  seemed  not  so  much  a  lover  as  a 
fulfilment  of  a  craving  for  love. 

The  first  sweet  moment  of  meeting  was  over. 
Her  future,  their  future,  shrouded  only  by  a  rose- 
hued  mist,  beyond  which  lay  light  and  ease,  was 
waiting  now  for  them  to  enter  upon.  In  this 
idyllic  hour  Geraldine,  daughter  of  Lesa  Swaim, 
had  come  to  the  very  zenith  of  life's  romance. 

"It  has  been  a  cruel  three  years,  Jerry,"  Eugene 
was  saying,  as,  their  first  greetings  over,  he  lighted 
a  cigarette  and  adjusted  himself  picturesquely  and 
easefully  in  York  Macpherson's  big  porch  chair — a 

344 


THE  LORD  HATH  HIS  WAY  IN  THE  STORM 

handsome,  perfectly  groomed,  artistic  fellow,  he 
appeared  fitted  as  never  before  to  adorn  life's  orna 
mental  places. 

"But  they  are  past  now.  You  won't  have  to 
teach  any  more,  little  cousin  o*  mine.  York 
Macpherson  says  your  land  lease  expires  to-day. 
So  your  business  transactions  here  are  over,  and 
we'll  just  throw  that  ground  in  the  river  and 
forget  it." 

He  might  have  taken  the  girl's  hand  in  his  as 
they  sat  together,  but  instead  he  clasped  his  own 
hands  gracefully  and  studied  their  fine  outlines. 

"I  have  all  the  Darby  estate  in  my  own  name 
now,  you  know,  and  I  didn't  have  to  work  a  stroke 
at  earning  it.  God!  I  wonder  how  a  fellow  can 
stand  it  to  work  for  every  dollar  he  gets  until  he 
is  comfortably  fixed.  I  simply  filled  in  my  bank 
ing-hours  in  a  perfunctory  way,  and  I  didn't  kill 
myself  at  it,  either.  See  what  I  have  saved  by 
it  for  myself  and  you,  and  how  much  better  my 
course  was  than  yours,  after  all.  Just  three  years 
of  waiting,  and  dodging  all  the  drudgery  I  possibly 
could.  And  you  can  just  bet  I'm  a  good  dodger, 
Jerry." 

Something  like  a  chill  went  quivering  through 
Jerry  Swaim's  whole  being,  but  the  smile  in  her 
eyes  seemed  fixed  there,  as  Eugene  went  on: 

"Now  if  I  had  stuck  to  art,  where  would  I  have 
been  and  where  would  you  be  right  now?  I've 
always  wanted  to  paint  the  prairies.  If  I  can 

345 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

stand  this  blasted,  crude  country  long  enough,  and 
if  I'm  not  too  lazy,  we'll  play  around  here  a  little 
while,  till  I  have  smeared  up  a  few  canvases,  and 
then  we'll  go  home,  never  to  return,  dear.  Art  is 
going  to  be  my  pastime  hereafter,  you  know,  as  it 
was  once  my — my — " 

"Oh,  never  mind  what  it  once  was."  Jerry 
helped  to  end  the  sentence. 

The  sunset  on  the  Sage  Brush  was  never  more 
radiantly  beautiful  than  it  was  on  this  evening, 
and  the  long  midsummer  twilight  gave  promise  of 
its  rarest  grandeur  of  coloring.  But  a  dull  veil 
seemed  to  be  slowly  dropping  down  upon  Jerry's 
world. 

Eugene  Wellington  looked  at  her  keenly. 

"Why,  Jerry,  aren't  you  happy  to  see  me — glad 
for  us  to  be  together  again?"  he  asked,  with  just 
a  tinge  of  sharpness  edging  his  tones. 

"I  have  looked  forward  to  this  meeting  as  a 
dream,  an  impossible  joy.  I  hardly  realize  yet 
that  it  isn't  a  dream  any  more,"  Jerry  answered 
him. 

"Say,  cousin  girl,"  Eugene  Wellington  ex 
claimed,  suddenly,  "I  have  been  trying  all  this 
time  to  find  out  what  it  is  that  is  changed  in  your 
face.  Now  I  know.  You  have  grown  to  look  so 
much  more  like  your  father  than  you  did  three 
years  ago.  Better  looking,  of  course,  but  his  face, 
and  I  never  noticed  it  before.  Only  you  will  al 
ways  have  your  mother's  beautiful  eyes." 

346 


THE  LORD  HATH  HIS  WAY  IN  THE  STORM 

"Thank  you,  Gene.  They  were,  each  in  his  and 
her  way,  good  to  me.  I  hope  I  shall  never  put 
a  stain  upon  their  good  names,"  Jerry  murmured, 
wondering  strangely  whether  the  feeling  that 
gripped  her  at  the  moment  could  be  joy  or  sorrow. 

"They  didn't  leave  you  much  of  an  inheritance. 
That's  the  only  thing  that  could  be  said  against 
them.  My  father  was  partly  to  blame  for  that, 
I  guess,  but  I  never  had  the  courage  to  tell  you 
so  till  now.  You  know  courage  and  Eugene  Well 
ington  never  got  on  well  together."  Somehow  his 
words  seemed  to  rattle  harshly  against  Jerry's 
ears.  "You  know,  my  dad,  John  Wellington, 
came  out  here  to  this  very  forsaken  Sage  Brush 
Valley  somewhere  and  started  in  to  be  a  million 
aire  himself  on  short  notice,  by  the  short-cut  plan 
of  finance.  When  the  thing  began  to  look  like 
work  he  threw  up  the  whole  blamed  concern,  just 
as  I  would  have  done.  Work  never  was  a  strong 
element  in  the  Wellington  blood,  any  more  than 
courage,  you  know."  Gene  stopped  to  light  an 
other  cigarette.  Then  he  went  on:  '"'Well,  after 
that,  dad  clung  close  to  Jim  Swaim  and  Uncle 
Darby  till  he  died.  I  guess,  if  the  truth  were  told, 
he  helped  most  to  tear  your  father  down  finan 
cially.  He  could  do  that  kind  of  thing,  I  know. 
Jim  Swaim  spent  thousands  stopping  the  cracks 
after  dad,  to  save  the  good  name  of  Wellington 
for  his  daughter  to  wear— as  your  mother  always 
hoped  you  would,  because  I  was  an  artist  then. 

24  347 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

You  see,  Mrs.  Swaim  loved  art — and,  as  Aunt 
Darby  always  insisted  (that  was  before  you  ran 
away  from  her),  because  it  would  keep  her  money 
and  Uncle  Darby's  all  in  the  family.  That's  why 
I'm  so  glad  to  bring  all  this  fortune  that  I  do  to 
you  now.  I'm  just  making  up  to  you  what  your 
father  lost  through  mine,  you  see,  and  it  came 
to  me  so  easily,  without  my  having  to  grub  for  it. 
Just  pleasing  Aunt  Darby  and  taking  a  soft  snap 
of  clerical  work,  with  short  hours  and  good  pay, 
instead  of  toiling  at  painting,  even  if  I  do  love  the 
old  palette  and  brush.  And  I  used  to  think  I'd 
rather  do  that  sort  of  thing  than  anything  else  in 
the  world." 

Jerry's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  young  artist's 
face  with  a  gaze  that  troubled  him. 

"Don't  stare  at  me  that  way,  Jerry.  That  isn't 
the  picture  I  want  you  to  pose  for  when  I  paint 
your  portrait,  Saint  Geraldine.  Now  listen,*' 
Eugene  continued.  "Your  York  Macpherson  was 
East  this  spring,  and  he  told  me  that  that  wild- 
goose  chase  of  dad's  out  here  had  left  a  desert 
behind  him.  He  said  a  poor  devil  of  a  fellow  had 
fought  for  years  against  the  sand  that  dad  sowed 
(I  don't  know  how  he  did  the  sowing),  till  it  ate 
up  about  all  this  poor  wretch  had  ever  had.  The 
unfortunate  cuss!  York  tried  to  tell  Aunt  Darby 
(but  I  headed  him  off  successfully)  that  dad 
started  a  thing  that  became  what  they  call  a 
'blowout'  here.  York  Macpherson  wanted  to  put 

348 


THE  LORD  HATH  HIS  WAY  IN  THE  STORM 

up  a  big  spiel  to  her  about  justice  to  you  and  some 
other  folks — this  poor  critter  who  got  sanded  over, 
maybe.  But  it  didn't  move  me  one  mite,  and  I 
didn't  let  it  get  by  to  Aunt  Jerry's  ears,  although 
I  half-way  promised  York  I  would,  to  get  rid  of  the 
thing  the  easiest  way,  for  that's  my  way,  you 
know.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  precious  thing  as 
a  'blowout'  here,  Jerry?" 

Jerry's  face  was  white  and  her  eyes  burned  blue- 
black  now  with  a  steady  glow.  "Never,  till  to 
night,"  she  said,  slowly.  "I  never  dreamed  till 
now  how  barren  a  thing  a  lust  for  property  can 
create." 

Gene  Wellington  dropped  his  cigarette  stub  and 
stared  a  moment.  He  did  not  grasp  her  meaning 
at  all,  but  her  voice  was  not  so  pleasant,  now,  as 
her  merry  laugh  and  soft  words  had  been  three 
years  ago. 

"By  the  way,  coming  up  to-day,  I  heard  of  a 
dramatic  situation.  I  think  I'll  hunt  up  the 
local  color  for  a  canvas  for  it,"  Eugene  began,  by 
way  of  changing  the  theme.  "You  know  you  had 
a  horribly  rotten  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning 
and  wind,  and  a  cloudburst  down  the  river  valley 
where  our  train  was  stuck  in  the  mud,  and  the 
tracks  were  all  lost  in  the  sand-drift  and  other 
vile  debris.  Well,  coming  up  here  from  the  de 
railed  train,  some  one  said  that  the  young  fellow 
who  had  leased  that  land,  or  owned  the  land,  that 
is  just  above  the  sand-line,  the  poor  devil  who 

349 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

had  such  a  struggle,  you  know — well,  he  was  lost 
when  the  river  overflowed  its  banks.  But  some 
body  else  said  he  might  be  marooned,  half  starved, 
on  an  island  of  sand  out  in  the  river,  waiting  for 
the  flood  to  go  down.  The  roads  are  just  impass 
able  around  there,  so  they  can't  get  in  to  see  what 
has  become  of  him.  His  house  was  washed  away, 
it  seems — I  saw  a  part  of  it  in  the  river — but  no 
body  knows  where  he  is.  Hard  luck,  wasn't  it? 
I  know  you'll  be  glad  to  leave  this  God-forsaken 
country,  won't  you,  dearie?  How  you  ever  stood 
it  for  three  whole  years  I  can't  comprehend. 
Only  you  always  were  the  bravest  girl  I  ever  knew. 
Just  as  soon  as  I  paint  a  few  of  its  drearinesses 
we'll  be  leaving  it  forever.  What's  the  matter?" 

Jerry  Swaim  had  sprung  to  her  feet  and  was 
standing,  white  and  s'lent,  staring  at  her  compan 
ion  with  wide-open,  burning  eyes.  Against  all  the 
culture  and  idle  ease  of  her  trivial,  purposeless 
years  were  matched  these  three  times  twelve 
months  of  industry  and  purpose  that  came  at  a 
price,  with  the  comradeship  of  one  who  had  met 
life's  foes  and  vanquished  them,  who  earned  his 
increase,  and  served  and  sacrificed. 

"What's  the  matter,  Jerry?"  Gene  repeated. 
"Did  I  shock  you?  It  is  a  tragical  sort  of  story,  I 
know,  but  you  used  to  love  the  romantic  and 
adventurous.  Every  big  storm,  and  every  flood, 
has  such  incidents.  I  never  remember  them  a 
minute,  except  the  storm  that  took  Uncle  Cornie 

350 


THE  LORD  HATH  HIS  WAY  IN  THE  STORM 

and  left  me  a  fortune.  They  are  so  unpleasant. 
But  there  is  a  touch  of  romance  in  this  for  you. 
They  told  me  that  a  young  Norwegian  girl  down 
there  was  moving  heaven  and  earth  to  find  this 
poor  lost  devil,  because  he  had  been  so  good  to 
her  always  and  had  helped  her  when  her  brother 
was  badly  hurt.  I  guess  her  brother  went  down 
stream,  bottom  side  up,  too.  See  the  drift  of  it 
all?  The  time,  the  place,  and  the  girl — there's 
your  romance,  Cousin  Jerry,  only  the  actors  are 
terribly  common,  you  know." 

Who  can  forecast  the  trend  of  the  human  heart? 
Three  days  ago  Jerry  had  thought  complacently 
of  the  convenience  of  this  stout  little  Thelma  for 
Joe's  future  comfort.  Now  the  thought  that 
Thelma  had  seen  him  last,  had  caught  the  last 
word,  the  last  brave  look,  smote  her  heart  with 
anguish. 

"Doesn't  anybody  know  where  Joe  is?"  she 
cried,  wringing  her  hands. 

"I  don't  know  if  his  name  is  Joe.  I  don't  know 
if  anybody  knows  where  he  is.  I  really  don't  care 
a  sou  about  it  all,  Jerry."  Gene  drawled  his  words 
intentionally.  "The  roads  are  awful  down  that 
way.  They  nearly  bumped  me  to  pieces  coming 
up,  hours  and  hours,  it  seemed,  in  a  wagon,  where 
a  decent  highway  and  an  automobile  would  have 
brought  me  in  such  a  short  time.  It  would  be  hard 
to  find  this  Joe  creature,  dead  or  alive.  Let's  talk 
about  something  more  artistic." 

351 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

"Gene,  I  can't  talk  now.  I  can't  stay  here  a 
minute  longer.  I  must  go  and  find  this  man.  I 
must!  I  must!" 

In  the  frenzy  of  that  moment,  the  strength 
of  character  in  Jerry's  face  made  it  wonderful 
to  see. 

"Jerry!"  Eugene  Wellington  exclaimed,  em 
phatically.  "You  perfectly  shock  me!  This  horrid 
country  has  almost  destroyed  your  culture.  Go 
and  find  this  man — 

But  Jerry  was  already  hurrying  up  the  street 
toward  Ponk's  Commercial  Hotel  and  Garage. 

"Miss  Swaim,  you  can't  never  get  by  in  a  car 
down  there,"  Ponk  was  urging,  five  minutes  later. 
"I  know  you  can  drive  like — like  you  can  work 
algebra,  logyruthms,  and  never  slip  a  cog.  But 
you'll  never  get  down  the  Sage  Brush  that  far  to 
night.  If  them  Norwegians  on  beyond  the  ranch 
yon  side  of  the  big  bend  'ain't  done  nothing,  you 
just  can't.  The  Ekblads  and  the  other  neighbors 
will  do  all  a  body  can,  especially  Thelmy.  The 
river's  clear  changed  its  channel  an'  you  could  run 
a  car  up  to  the  top  of  Bunker  Hill  Monument, 
back  in  New  Hampshire,  easier  than  you  could 
cut  the  gullies  an'  hit  the  levels  of  the  lower  Sage 
Brush  trail  after  this  flood." 

" Get  the  car  ready  quick.  /  want  to  go"  Jerry 
commanded,  and  Ponk  obeyed.  A  minute  later 
a  gray  streak  whizzed  by  the  Macpherson  home, 

352 


THE  LORD  HATH  HIS  WAY  IN  THE  STORM 

where  Eugene  Wellington  stood  on  the  porch 
staring  in  speechless  amazement. 

"Bless  her  heart!"  he  ejaculated,  at  length. 
"She  is  self-willed  like  her  dad.  Aunt  Darby  al 
ways  told  me  I'd  have  to  manage  her  with  gloves 
on,  but  not  to  forget  to  manage  her,  anyhow/* 

He  strolled  back  to  the  Commercial  Hotel, 
where  the  best-natured  man  in  Kansas  lay  in  wait 
for  him. 

"You're  in  early.  Have  a  real  cigar — a  regular 
Havany-de-Cuby — off  of  me.  An'  take  a  smoke 
out  here  where  it's  cool." 

Eugene  took  the  proffered  cigar  and  the  seat 
on  the  side  porch  of  the  hotel  that  commanded  a 
view  of  the  street  clear  to  "Castle  Cluny." 

"Town's  pretty  quiet  this  evenin'.  All  the  men 
are  gone  up-stream  or  down,  to  see  if  they  can 
help  in  the  storm  region.  Every  store  shut  up 
tight  as  wax.  Three  preachers,  station-agent,  the 
three  movie  men — gone  with  the  rest.  We  are  a 
sympathetic  bunch  out  here,  an'  rather  quick  to 
get  the  SOS  signal  and  respond  noble." 

"So  it  seems,"  Eugene  replied,  wondering  the 
while  how  he  should  be  able  to  kill  the  time  till 
Jerry's  return,  resolving  not  to  tarry  here  to  paint 
a  single  canvas.  The  sooner  Geraldine  Swaim  was 
out  of  Kansas  the  better  for  her  perverted  sense 
of  the  esthetic,  and  the  safer  for  her  happiness — 
and  his  own. 

"Yes,"  Ponk  was  going  on  to  say,  "everybody 

353 


THE    RECLAIMERS 

helps.  Why,  I  just  now  let  out  the  pride  of  the 
gurrage  to  a  young  lady.  She's  just  heard  that  a 
man  she  knows  well  is  lost  or  marooned  on  a  island 
in  the  floods  of  the  Sage  Brush.  And  if  anybody  '11 
ever  save  him,  she  will.  She's  been  doin'  impos 
sible  things  here  for  three  years,  and  the  town  just 
worships  her." 

"I  should  think  it  would,"  Eugene  Wellington 
said,  with  a  sarcasm  in  his  tone. 

"It  does,"  Ponk  assured  him.  "She's  the  real 
stuff — even  mother,  out  yonder,  loves  her." 

The  little  man's  face  was  turned  momentarily 
toward  the  hill-slope  cemetery  beyond  the  town. 
"And  when  a  girl  like  that  comes  to  me  for  my 
fastest-powered  car  to  go  where  no  car  can't  go, 
for  the  sake  of  as  good  a  man  as  ever  lived  on 
earth,  a  man  she's  been  contracting  with  for  three 
years,  and  with  that  look  in  her  fine  eyes,  they's 
no  mistakin'  to  any  sensible  man  on  God's  earth 
why  she's  doin'  it." 

"If  my  room  is  ready  I'll  go  to  it,"  Eugene 
broke  in,  curtly. 

"Yes,  Georgette,  call  George  to  take  the  gentle 
man  to  number  seven,  an'  put  him  to  bed." 

Then  the  little  keeper  of  the  Commercial  Hotel 
and  Garage  turned  toward  the  street  again,  and 
his  full-moon  face  went  into  a  total  eclipse.  But 
what  lay  back  of  that  shadow  of  the  earth  upon 
it  no  man  but  Junius  Brutus  Ponk  could  know. 


XIX 

RECLAIMED 

1T\OWN  the  Sage  Brush  trail  Jerry  Swaim's  car 
^^  swept  on  in  spite  of  ruts  and  gullies  and  nar 
row  roadways  and  obstructing  debris,  flood- 
washed  across  the  land.  But  though  the  machine 
leaped  and  climbed  and  skidded  most  perilously, 
nothing  daunted  the  girl  with  a  grip  on  the  steer 
ing-wheel.  The  storm-center  of  destruction  had 
been  at  the  big  bend  of  the  river,  and  no  hand  less 
skilful,  nor  will  less  determined,  would  have  dared 
to  drive  a  car  as  Jerry  Swaim  drove  hers  into  the 
heart  of  the  Sage  Brush  flood-lands  in  the  twilight 
of  this  June  evening. 

Where  the  forks  of  the  trail  should  have  been 
the  girl  paused  and  looked  down  the  road  she  had 
followed  three  years  before;  once  when  she  had 
lost  her  way  in  her  drive  toward  the  Swaim  estate; 
again,  when  she  herself  was  lost  in  the  overwhelm 
ing  surprise  and  disappointment  of  her  ruined 
acres;  and  lastly  when  she  had  come  with  Joe 
Thomson  to  recover  her  stolen  money  from  the 
old  grub  whose  shack  was  close  beside  the  deep 

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THE    RECLAIMERS 

fishing-hole.  The  road  now  was  all  a  part  of  the 
mad,  overwhelming  Sage  Brush  hurrying  its  flood 
waters  to  the  southeast  with  all  its  might.  Where 
was  the  flimsy  little  shack  now,  and  where  was 
the  old  Teddy  Bear  himself?  Did  his  shabby  form 
lie  under  the  swirling  current  of  that  angry  river, 
his  heroic  old  heart  stilled  forever? 

A  group  of  rescuers,  muddy  and  tired,  came 
around  a  growth  of  low  bushes  on  the  higher 
ground  toward  her.  All  day  they  had  been  locat 
ing  homeless  flood  victims,  rescuing  stock,  and 
dragging  farm  implements  above  the  water-line. 
The  sight  of  Ponk's  best  car,  mud-smeared  and 
panting,  amazed  them.  This  wasn't  a  place  for 
cars.  But  the  face  of  the  driver  amazed  them 
more. 

"Why,  it's  Miss  Swaim,  that  teacher  up  at 
New  Eden !"  one  man  exclaimed. 

At  the  word,  a  boy,  unrecognizable  for  the  mud 
caking  him  over,  leaped  forward  toward  Jerry's 
car. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Miss  Swaim?"  he  cried. 
"You  mustn't  go  any  farther!  The  river's  under 
mined  everything!  Please  don't  go!  Please 
don't!"  he  pleaded. 

"Why,  Clare  Lenwell!"  Jerry  exclaimed,  in 
surprise. 

"Yes.  Tin's  isn't  my  full-dress  I  wore  at  Com 
mencement  the  other  night,  but  I've  been  saving 
lives  to-day,  and  feeding  the  hungry,  too,"  the 

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RECLAIMED 

boy  declared,  forgetting  his  besmeared  clothing  in 
the  thought  of  his  service. 

"Tell  me,  Clare,  where  is  Joe  Thomson — I  mean 
the  young  man  whose  ranch  is  just  below  here." 

Clare's  face  couldn't  go  white  under  that  mud, 
but  Jerry  saw  his  hand  tremble  as  it  caught  the 
edge  of  her  wind-shield. 

"He's  gone  down-stream,  I'm  afraid.  They  say 
his  home  is  clean  gone.  We  have  been  across  the 
river  and  came  over  on  that  high  bridge.  I  don't 
know  much  about  this  side.  They  said  Thelma 
Ekblad  tried  to  save  him  and  nearly  got  lost  her 
self.  Her  brother,  the  cripple,  you  know,  couldn't 
get  away.  Their  house  is  gone  now.  He  and  the 
Belkap  baby  were  given  up  for  lost  when  old 
Fishin'  Teddy  got  to  them  some  way.  He  knew 
the  high  stepping-stones  below  the  deep  hole  and 
hit  them  true  every  step.  They  said  he  went 
nearly  neck  deep  holding  Paul  and  striking  solid 
rock  every  time.  He'd  lived  by  the  river  so  long 
he  knew  the  crossing,  deep  as  the  flood  was  over 
it.  Paul  made  him  take  the  baby  first,  and  he  got 
out  with  it,  all  right,  and  would  have  been  safe, 
but  he  was  bound  to  go  back  for  Paul,  too;  and 
he  got  him  safe  to  land,  where  the  baby  was;  but 
I  guess  the  effort  was  too  much  for  the  old  fellow, 
and  he  loosed  his  hold  and  fell  back  into  the  river 
before  they  could  catch  him.  He  saved  two  lives, 
though,  and  he  wasn't  any  use  to  the  community, 
anyhow.  A  man  that  lives  alone  like  that  never 

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THE    RECLAIMERS 

is,  so  it  isn't  much  loss,  after  all.  But  that  big  Joe 
Thomson's  another  matter.  And  he  was  so  strong, 
he  could  swim  like  a  whale;  but  the  Sage  Brush  got 
him — I'm  afraid." 

Jerry's  engine  gave  a  great  thump  as  she  flung 
on  all  the  power  and  dashed  away  on  the  upper 
road  toward  Joe  Thomson's  ranch. 

"At  the  bend  of  the  river  you  turn  toward  the 
three  cottonwoods."  Jerry  recalled  the  directions 
given  her  on  her  first  and  only  journey  down  this 
valley  three  years  before. 

"Why,  why,  there  is  no  bend  any  more!"  she 
cried  as  she  halted  her  car  and  gazed  in  amazement 
and  horror  at  the  river  valley  where  a  broad,  full 
stream  poured  down  a  new-cut  channel  straight  to 
the  south. 

"Joe's  home  isn't  gone  at  all!  Yonder  it  stands, 
safe  and  high  above  the  flood-line.  Oh,  where  did 
the  river  take  Joe?"  She  twisted  her  hands  in  her 
old  quick,  nervous  way,  and  stiffened  every  muscle 
as  if  to  keep  off  a  dead  weight  that  was  crushing 
down  upon  her. 

"He  said  if  I  wanted  him  he  would  be  down 
beyond  the  blowout.  I'm  going  to  look  for  him 
there.  I  don't  know  where  else  to  go,  and  I  want 
him." 

The  white,  determined  face  and  firm  lips  be 
spoke  Jim  Swaim's  own  child  now.  And  if  the 
speed  of  her  car  was  increased,  no  one  would  ever 
know  that  the  thought  of  reaching  her  goal  ahead 

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of  any  possible  Thelma  might  be  the  impetus  that 
gave  the  increase. 

"Yonder  are  the  three  cottonwoods.  From  there 
I  can  see  the  oak-grove  and  all  of  my  rare  old  acres 
of  sand.  What  beautiful  wheat  everywhere!  The 
storm  seems  to  have  hit  the  other  side  of  the  river 
as  it  runs  now,  and  left  all  this  fine  crop  to  Joe. 
But  what  for,  if  it  took  him?" 

Her  quick  imagination  pictured  possibilities  too 
dreadful  for  words. 

Down  in  the  oak-grove,  Joe  Thomson  stood 
leaning  against  a  low  bough,  staring  out  at  the 
river  valley,  with  the  shimmering  glow  of  the 
twilight  sky  above  it.  At  the  soft  whirring  sound 
of  an  automobile  he  turned,  to  see  a  gray  run 
about  coasting  down  the  long  slope  from  the  three 
cottonwoods. 

"Jerry!"  The  glad  cry  broke  from  his  lips  in 
voluntarily. 

Jerry  did  not  speak.  After  the  first  instant  of 
assurance  that  Joe  was  alive,  her  eyes  were  not 
on  the  young  ranchman,  but  on  the  landscape 
beyond  him.  There,  billow  on  billow  of  waving 
young  wheat  breaking  against  the  oak-wood  out 
post  swept  in  from  far  away,  where  once  she  had 
looked  out  on  nothing  but  burning,  restless  sand, 
spiked  here  and  there  by  a  struggling  green  shrub. 

"What  has  done  all  this?"  she  cried,  at  last. 

"I'm  partly  'what,'"  Joe  Thomson  replied.  The 

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THE    RECLAIMERS 

shadows  were  on  his  face  again,  and  his  loss,  after 
that  moment  of  glad  surprise,  seemed  to  be 
doubly  heavy. 

"But  how?  I  don't  understand.  I'm  dreaming. 
You  really  are  here,  and  not  dead,  are  you?" 

"No,  you  are  not  dreaming.  I  only  wish  you 
were,"  Joe  responded,  gloomily.  "But  no  matter. 
Yes,  I'm  here.  'Part  of  me  lived,  but  most  of 
me  died,' "  he  muttered  Kipling's  line  half  audibly. 
"I  subleased  your  land  from  the  Macpherson 
Mortgage  Company  three  years  ago.  The  lease 
expires  to-day.  You  remember  what  it  was  worth 
when  you  saw  it  before.  I  shall  hand  it  over  to 
you  now,  worth  thirty  dollars  an  acre.  Thirty 
thousand  dollars,  at  the  very  least,  besides  the 
value  of  the  crop.  I  got  beyond  the  blowout  and 
followed  it  up.  I  plowed  and  planted.  Lord !  how 
I  plowed  and  planted !  And  as  with  old  Paul  and 
Apollos,  it  was  God  who  gave  the  increase." 

"Joe!  Oh,  Joe!  You  are  a  miracle- worker!" 
Jerry  cried. 

"A  worker,  all  right,  maybe.  And  all  life  is  a 
miracle,"  Joe  declared,  gravely. 

"But  your  own  land,  Joe.  They  told  me  that 
your  house  was  gone  and  that  maybe  you  had 
gone  with  it,  and  that  these  roads  down  here  were 
impassable  and  nobody  could  find  you." 

Joe  came  to  the  side  of  the  little  gray  car  where 
Jerry  sat  with  her  white  hands  crossed  on  the 
steering-wheel.  Her  soft  white  gown,  fitted  for  a 

800 


RECLAIMED 

summer  afternoon  on  the  Macpherson  porch, 
seemed  far  more  lovely  in  the  evening  light  down 
by  the  oak-trees.  Her  golden  hair  was  blown  in 
little  ringlets  about  her  forehead,  and  her  dark- 
blue  eyes — Joe  wondered  if  Nature  ever  gave  such 
eyes  to  another  human  being! 

"No,  Jerry,  my  house  isn't  gone.  My  father 
built  it  up  pretty  high  above  the  river,  and  I 
saved  almost  everything  loose  before  the  flood 
reached  my  place.  It  was  the  Ekblad  house  that 
went  down  the  river.  I  went  over  there  to  help 
Thelma  get  her  brother  and  the  baby  to  safety 
on  the  high  ground.  She  had  started  out  to 
warn  old  Fishin'  Teddy,  thinking  her  own  family 
was  secure,  and  afraid  he  would  get  caught.  She 
could  not  get  back  to  them,  nor  anywhere  else. 
I  saved  her,  all  right,  but  when  I  went  back  after 
Paul  and  the  baby,  the  home  and  those  in  it  were 
gone  down-stream.  Thelma  thought  we  were  all 
lost.  That's  how  the  story  got  started.  Old  Teddy 
is  gone,  but  I  heard  later  that  the  others  are  saved. 
Their  home  wasn't  worth  so  very  much.  They  got 
most  of  the  real  valuable  things — photographs  of 
their  dead  father  and  mother,  and  the  family  Bible, 
and  deeds,  and  a  few  trinkets.  Other  things  don't 
count.  Money  will  replace  them.  Anyhow,  York 
Macpherson  is  buying  their  land  at  a  good  figure. 
It  will  give  Thelma  the  chance  she's  wanted — to 
go  to  a  college  town  and  teach  botany.  She  will 
make  her  way  and  carry  a  name  among  educators 

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THE    RECLAIMERS 

yet,  and  support  Paul  and  the  baby,  all  right,  too. 
Did  the  folks  miss  me  and  say  I  had  gone  down 
the  river?  Well,  I  didn't.  I'm  here.  And  as  to  all 
this" — he  waved  his  hand  toward  the  wheat — 
"I  can  net  a  right  good  bank-account  for  myself 
and  I  can  pay  off  the  mortgage  I  put  on  my  claim 
to  pay  the  lease  on  yours,  and  for  steam-plows 
and  such  things.  It  has  been  a  bumper  year  for 
wheat  down  here.  I  have  reclaimed  the  land  from 
the  desert.  It  will  revert  to  you  now — you  and 
your  artist  cousin  jointly,  I  suppose.  The  river 
helped  to  finish  the  work  for  me — found  its  old 
bed  in  that  low  sandy  streak  where  years  ago  the 
blowout  began.  It  has  straightened  its  bend  for 
itself  and  got  away  from  that  ledge  below  the 
deep  hole,  and  left  the  rest  of  the  ground,  all  the 
upper  portion  of  the  blowout,  yours  and  mine, 
covered  with  a  fine  silt,  splendid  for  cultivation. 
The  blowout  is  dead.  It  took  hard  work  and 
patience  and  a  big  risk,  of  course,  and  the  Lord 
Almighty  at  last  for  a  partner  in  the  firm  to  kill  it 
off.  Your  own  comes  back  to  you  now.  Can  I 
be  of  any  further  service  to  you?" 

As  he  stood  there  with  folded  arms  beside  the 
car,  tall  and  rugged,  with  the  triumph  of  over 
coming  deep  written  on  his  sad  face,  the  width  of 
the  earth  seemed  suddenly  to  yawn  between  him 
and  the  lucky  artist  who  had  inherited  a  fortune 
without  labor. 

"You  have  done  more  than  to  reclaim  this 

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RECLAIMED 

ground,  Joe,"  Jerry  exclaimed.  "Miraculous  as  it 
all  is,  there  is  a  bigger  desert  than  this,  the  waste 
and  useless  desert  in  the  human  heart.  You  have 
helped  to  reclaim  to  a  better  life  a  foolish,  romanc 
ing,  daring  girl,  with  no  true  conception  of  what 
makes  life  worth  while.  All  the  Sage  Brush  Valley 
has  been  good  to  me.  York  and  Laura  Macpher- 
son  in  their  well-bred,  wholesome  friendship;  little 
Mr.  Ponk  in  his  deep  love  for  his  mother  and  faith 
in  God;  even  old  Teddy  Bear,  poor  lost  creature, 
in  his  sublime  devotion  to  duty,  protecting  the 
woman  he  had  vowed  once  at  the  marriage  altar 
that  he  would  protect;  and,  most  of  all" — Jerry's 
voice  was  soft  and  low — "a  sturdy,  brave  young 
farmer  has  helped  me  by  his  respect  for  honest 
labor  and  his  willingness  to  sacrifice  for  others. 

"Joe" — Jerry  spoke  more  softly  still — "when 
you  said  good-by  the  other  night  in  the  storm,  you 
told  me  that  if  I  ever  wanted  you  I'd  find  you  down 
beyond  the  blowout.  The  word  was  like  a  -blow 
in  the  face  then.  But  to-night  I  left  Cousin  Gene 
up  at  New  Eden  and  came  here  to  find  you,  be 
cause  /  want  you." 

With  all  of  Jim  Swaim's  power  to  estimate  values 
written  in  her  firm  mouth  and  chin,  but  with  Lesa 
Swaim's  love  of  romance  shining  in  her  dark  eyes, 
Jerry  looked  up  shyly  at  Joe.  And  Joe  understood. 

THE    END 


UC  SOU' 


llllli  111' "'      •'  r*      /^  "7  Q 


